


Vibrant Forests, Bloody Hands

by ABitToTheWest



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Monster Hunter (Video Games)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Monster Hunter: Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26955919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABitToTheWest/pseuds/ABitToTheWest
Summary: Maxwell is a proud hunter of the Fifth Fleet, a slayer of monsters and surveyor of the vast and beautiful lands of the New World. He has climbed the tallest peaks, delved the deepest depths and defended his newfound home with tenacity unmatched.He is not the fabled Sapphire Star, that honor resting in the hands of another.His hands are meant for a different purpose.A DA:I - Monster Hunter Crossover
Comments: 15
Kudos: 49





	1. In Which The Hunter Enjoys Life

It is a dark night in the Ancient Forest, but not a silent one. Life teems underneath the titanic boughs of a tree so large it beggars imagination, hulking predators slumbering in leafy dens, wolf-like reptiles slinking through dense undergrowth and insects of every variety chirping into the inky night. A man sits above it all in one of the gargantuan tree’s many, _many_ branches, eyes halfheartedly scanning the landscape below. There is a roughly bound book sat by his side, half-completed sketch of the vista below spread across the open pages. So high above, the stars glimmer brightly, the Sapphire Star brightest of all.

 _It is peaceful_ , Maxwell thinks, his armored legs dangling freely over the precipitous drop. He takes a long swig of cider, the crisp flavor of pressed apples from Astera’s own orchid blooming across his tongue. He lets out a quiet sigh of contentment, enjoying the night air whispering over exposed skin, the constant hubbub of life around him soothing to the ear. Scout Flies, benefit of anything to track, meander their way around the alcove the hunter has set himself up in, intermittently landing on interesting looking rocks and ferns before moving onto the next.

His armor is thick and tested, numerous dips and divots carved into its tempered surface from a litany of past hunts. If truly pressed, he could ably describe the circumstances in which he acquired each one, be it from a furious Deviljho, an even more furious Kulu-Ya-Ku or even that time he’d tripped down that absurdly long set of stairs outside the canteen. It is not a conventionally attractive set of armor, nor even a cohesive set, cobbled together as it is from a combination of seven different types of monster scales ranging from Pukei-Pukei to Kushala Daora, three types of alloyed plates of metal and the underlying chainmail. It serves its purpose, however, its steadfast durability keeping many a blow from his skin. Beneath the concealing armor, he is heavily muscled, the sheer physicality of his chosen profession demanding nothing less than peak fitness.

His weapon is no different, the tremendous slab of bone cut from the jaw of a particularly burly Anjanath requiring months of grueling training before it could be wielded effectively. It flickers even now, roiling specks of liquid flame dripping slowly from its fearsome teeth blackening the moss-covered stone it rests against. Its reassuring weight and incredible stopping power has felled many a charging beast bent on ending his life. Despite this, the blacksmith, Master of the Second Fleet, cajoles him to get a new weapon every time he can, begging for the chance to make one that is sharper, harder and, in his own words, flashier. He offers up other beasts bones as blades, ones larger and more fearsome than the comparatively humble Anjanath, those of Barioth, Deviljho and Glavenus. Yet Maxwell always refuses, simply shaking his head in response and chuckling wordlessly. He could explain, but honestly enjoys their interactions, the constant wheedling a pleasing back and forth between friends rather than a true annoyance. After all, the truth of the matter is simple. 

Years ago, mere weeks after landing upon the New World alongside the rest of the Fifth Fleet, he completed his tenth hunt, the first truly dangerous predator he’d faced. He still remembers that day, the pulse-pounding excitement as he tracked the hulking beast through miles of winding jungle, the mixed horror and grief as he found the charred remains of another hunter half hidden in the foliage, the vivid frenzy of combat and finally, the sheer, animal satisfaction as it finally fell. 

He barely knew the man it killed, a half remembered face at the canteen, a smiling mouth among dozens of others, but he owed it to the man’s memory to use what he gained from that hunt, in remembrance of his first loss, if nothing else. By now, years later, It is but an old scar, a well-worn regret he’s long since grown accustomed to. The armour he had made from the beasts carcass has long since worn away by the day-to-day wear of any hunter’s armor. Blows large and small, virulent acids and toxins and truly ridiculous amounts of fire contributing to its degradation.

But he’ll keep the blade a while yet.

There’s a rustle from down the path, leaves shaking as something scurries its way through the underbrush. The hunter twitches, free hand darting towards the greatsword resting at his side before he halts, recognizing the approaching patter of paws on wood. A broad smile makes its way to his lips as he turns fully towards the noise, just in time to catch a tortoiseshell furred palico clad in proportionate leather armour. As he absorbs the impact with practiced grace, he looks down, gaze meeting yellow, slitted eyes, as a feline smile breaks across his palico’s face.

“Meowster!” Pattern cries happily, smushing his fuzzy face squarely into the hunters nose. “I have re-purr-ned!”

Chuckling, Maxwell gives his hunting partner a quick scratch behind the ears as he relaxes himself once more. The palico, showing the boneless grace every lynian possesses, spreads himself over the hunter’s lap, belly quickly exposed for pets the hunter quickly begins applying.

“And what did you find out there in the forest?” Maxwell says happily, his voice a low, rumbling baritone. “You were gone for quite the while, I was almost worried!”

“Nya!” The palico laughs, “I would ne-purr be so sloppy! I’m too fur-midable!“

Maxwell laughs, ”Of course you wouldn't! I hold more trust in your abilities than that!”

The palico preens under the praise, back arching as the hunter’s hand scratches along his spine. The pair enjoy the moment of companionship before Maxwell asks once more, a little more seriously this time, retrieving his hands from the palico’s fluffy stomach as he does.

“Alright Patt, what’d you find out there?”

Pattern whines in mock protest but seriously pulls himself to his paws, throwing an over-enthusiastic salute before he starts his rambling report.

“Nya well, I was prowling around for some vigorwasps—you meow we really can’t have enough— and trying to avoid a purr-ticularly nosy Jagras when I slunk across the purr-ath of this weird ghost thing! It was all translucent and scary and scruff! Then wh-”

Somewhere during the meandering monologue, Maxwell raises his eyebrows, clearly disbelieving. The palico, when he catches the movement, slaps the bit of the hunter’s armour his little paws can actually reach, an abdominal plate, ringing it like a bell. The man winces, more out of apology than out of any real pain. “...Sorry for interrupting. Please go on.”

Pattern huffs as only a felyne can and continues. “Any-meow, there was a ghost and it was trying to haunt a sleeping Tobi! I dunno why, but when it started caterwauling, the Tobi chomped it up in one big bite! I was waiting fur something bad to happen but nothing did! Tobi just went back to snoozing! A-fur-ter that, I ran back to tell you and here I am, nya!’

After delivering his story with a grandiose series of gestures culminating in outstretched jazz-paws, the hunter gives the cat a searching look.

“You’re sure about this?”

“Pawsitive, Max!” 

“The..ghost… what did it look like?”

“Well, lemme remeb-fur. It was see-through, it looked like a human but all stretched meow-t and made the most a-paw-ling racket. Oh! It was als-meow on fire!”

“On fire?” Maxwell asks.

“See-through fire!” Pattern eagerly reiterates.

…

“Where’s the Tobi-Kadachi?” he asks, quickly moving on.

“Meown there, nya!” He says, pointing a clawed digit back the way he came.”Two levels meown, can’t miss it!”

…

“Alright then,” he huffs in good humor, pushing himself to his feet. “Let's find this Tobi-Kadachi, ensure nothing’s wrong with it. If there isn’t, we go talk to the Commision, if there is, we deal with it ourselves, then talk to the Commision. Sound good?”

“Nya!” Pattern agrees, joyfully flashing a felyne thumbs up.

The hunter pulls his helmet on over his head, shrugging his immense greatsword up and over his shoulder, bulging muscles uncomplaining under the weight. Rapping metal-clad fingers against the Scoutfly cage hanging from his belt, the tiny, bioluminescent insects quickly return to their portable home. He sends a longing look to the vista he had been so pleasantly contemplating before shrugging expansively. He’ll be back. The view’s not going anywhere. 

“Right then! Let’s get going, partner!” Maxwell says, flashing an unseen grin to the palico.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“MEOWSTER!”

Maxwell violently jerks into consciousness, hands instinctively going to his head as it convulses in hideous pain. _A concussion,_ he thinks blearily, all too familiar with the sensation as he screws his eyes shut, instinctively blocking the overwhelming glare, his hands fumbling for the potion at his waist. Long-held muscle memory guides the flask to his lips where he proceeds to shotgun the entire thing, viridian green sludge pouring down his throat .

Instantly, he’s feeling much better, the pounding head-ache fading as quickly as it came, soothing a bevy of cuts and bruises with it. He opens his eyes, half expecting to see a Grimalkyne celebrating a successful kidnapping or one of those new Paolumu subspecies about to eat him, only to be met with something far more concerning.

He blinks up at what was surely once the sky, the poisonous green fumes that have replaced it in its entirety whipping around in a ceaseless wind that howls through the desiccated canyon that the two find themselves in. It is unlike anything he’s ever seen, an unnatural environment apparently devoid of life to an extent beyond the vast deserts and boneyards in the New World.

“Wha-” The hunter begins to ask before his palico, frantic with worry, vigorously shakes him once more, shouting directly into his ear with all the vehemence his felyne body can muster 

“MEOWSTER! GET U- oh you’re up!”

Maxwell nods up to his companion, quickly struggling to his feet, almost falling over as he does so. Pattern, ever the helpful palico, places a supportive paw on his thigh, straining to keep the much larger human from falling on him.

“Thanks Patt. Now ... where are we? And how did we get here? I remember us starting to hunt that Tobi-Kadachi you were telling me about but-” He gestures to the barren expanse surrounding them ”-this is not the Ancient Forest, nor is it anywhere else we’ve been in the New World.” 

He looks down at the palico, suddenly noticing his greatsword laying discarded on the ground. Kneeling, he picks it up, running an experienced eye across its slab-like form, searching for any evidence of damage. Thankfully, there seems to be none, the jawbone just as deadly as the day it was pried from the rest of the Anjanath’s skull. He winces briefly as his hand touches the hilt of his sword, a flicker of viridescent light going unnoticed, concealed as it is underneath a thich gauntlet, the knife of pain buried under an avalanche of similar, half-healed aches

“I don’t know either Purr-tner! I think-” The palico trails off, clearly searching his memory for clues that he cannot remember. “I think we purr-sued it? And then...” he thinks again, felyne face scrunched in concentration “Something happened. Something bad.”

They share a moment of silence, each scanning the landscape surrounding them, the tall, mottled cliff faces bracketing to either side and the coarse sand shifting beneath their feet. There are whispers on the wind, whispers of agony, of life left undone. Of sudden and painful death.

Maxwell nods slowly, clearly coming to the same conclusion. “Something bad indeed, my friend.” Pattern opens his mouth, about to ask where they should start walking when he is rudely interrupted by an entirely unexpected source.

A light blooms, golden rays slicing through the surrounding miasma to give definition to the world. Alongside the light, a ziggurat is revealed, a once natural formation of rock brutishly sculpted into a looming landmark in a realm gone mad. Upon the spiked peak stands a fiercely burning silhouette, every feature obliterated from the relentless outpouring of light from every inch of blessed skin. It beckons the hunter forwards, a single, blazing hand outstretched, this minuscule movement visible despite the distance. 

Wordlessly, Pattern points a paw back at the being, looking at Maxwell with an expression of incredible confusion. 

“Huh.” The hunter manages, just as confused as his felyne companion. “I suppose we should.. follow it?” 

“Can’t see anything else to do, Meowster!” Pattern says, some of palico’s natural cheer returning. “Besides! It’s something mew! Something interesting! And we’re the first to spot it!” Pattern scritches at his ear. “Whatev-fur it is.”

Maxwell nods contemplatively. It is every hunter’s prerogative to follow the Commission's unofficial creed, to explore the unexplored, discover the undiscovered and be curious in all things.

_skitter skitter_

Behind them, unnatural spiders scuttle out from the cloying darkness, eyes set in disturbing configurations, uneven many-jointed legs and and mouthparts skewing far too human for the hunter’s liking. Maxwell, somewhat used to unnatural aggression from a thoroughly miserable month stationed in the Rotten Vale, stands his ground at first, greatsword braced before him, coiled muscles ready to unleash a devastating blow at the first sign of attack. The demon-spiders halt as one, an inhuman mutter sprouting from their number. They are too few, a bare half-dozen against a prepared opponent being a fight these creatures are unwilling to take.

Then the next wave arrives, a further dozen reinforcing the front ranks of the spider clutter. Then the next dozen. And the next. Buoyed by their sudden numerical advantage, the spiders advance. The hunter, wisely realizing his tenuous position, runs.

Maxwell sprints up the steep, shoddily cut stairs, wildly pumping legs clearing two steps at a time.The palico, possessing a much smaller, and thus lighter, body hangs from the back of his partner’s pack, digging through the extraordinary messy contents until he finds what he’d been looking for.

“Run fas-fur, Meowster!” Pattern yells at the back of the hunter’s helm, eyes fixed on the gaining cluster of spiders behind them, hurling a tiny projectile at their gaping maws and, crucially, their eight wide-open eyes. Pattern scrunches his eyes shut tight.

The flash-pod goes off with a quiet pop, bio-luminescent chemicals within the pod mixing and vigorously detonating, the reaction releasing an overwhelming flash of light that, for one brief moment, outshines even the beacon of holy light above. The spider-demons, having several eyes designed for searching out cowering prey in darkness, do not appreciate the sudden flash, letting out inhuman screeches of surprise and pain as they fall. 

The hunter guffaws, offering his passenger a hearty thumbs up, a gesture the palico eagerly returns. The elation is short-lived, however, as the ziggurat shifts, what had once been stairs turning into an almost vertical wall of rough stone. The hunter _oof’s_ in surprise, caught off guard by the sudden change but gamely begins to climb once more, hands and feet ably seeking handholds as he nears the peak.

“We’re al-meow-st there!” Pattern cries victoriously.

Those spider-demons fortunate enough to escape blinding crawl upwards once more, the vertical wall much more advantageous for their particular mode of pursuit.

But it is too late.

The hunter’s hand extends towards the burning figure, who, upon closer viewing seems almost familiar. An elderly woman, wearing an ornate headdress and heavy robes, someone that he knows he’s seen before, although he cannot say where. His lips part, something akin to a question on his tongue, when the apparition smoothly bends to touch his hand.

It should not be surprising when it burns, but it does. The gentle touch burns like lightning digging itself into the fragile bones of his hand and rooting itself in the marrow, like touching wildfire compressed into the shape of a woman. His jaws clenched tight, he feels his teeth creak under the pressure, even as the flame reverberates throughout his body, pooling in his bones and searing his skin with its passage. Distantly, he hears tortured screaming, only later, realizing that it’s his own.

Then it is over.

And he falls to dry, desolate ground, unconscious, outstretched hand flickering a intense, electric green.


	2. In Which The Hunter Kneels

Maxwell awakes to a wave of ice-cold water hitting him in the face. Sputtering, he instinctively tries to stand, to get up from what his still thoroughly unconscious brain thinks might be a poorly thought-out prank, only to fall flat onto his face. Reflectively twisting, he only barely avoids a broken nose, trying and failing to push himself to his feet, the effort revealing that both his legs and arms are bound in thick iron manacles. Evidently, he is imprisoned, for what crime he does not know. Sharp cursing, the cadence all too recognizable even if the content isn’t, bursts from around his prone form.

This is not a prank, the hunter realizes as memories of a barren wasteland and searing pain rush into his mind’s eye. As if in response, his hand throbs, a deep seated pulse beating like a second heartbeat ever so slightly off from his own. A gauntleted hand claps roughly upon his shoulder, yanking up him into a kneeling position.

He’s in a small, torchlit room, surrounded by several armed men brandishing thin, steel swords.. They are clad in unfamiliar armor, fear and anger worn plain upon their faces. He is without armor, without weapon, and dressed in a coarse woolen tunic. A spark of anger kindles in his chest, that they—whoever they are—took what is his, a spark he forces down. He has the sense that acting aggressive at this time would be a truly short-sighted decision.

One of them, a sallow-faced man still clutching at his shoulder, goes to speak, thin lips curled into a hateful snarl, before he is cut-off by the door slamming open. A heavily armoured woman practically simmering with volcanic rage storms over the threshold, her sudden presence prompting the guards to hastily straighten, and the sallow-faced man to release the hunter’s shoulder as if burnt. She is shortly followed by another, a stone-faced, red-haired woman wearing a thick chainmail jerkin. 

There's a long moment of silence as the first woman, blackened armor embossed with a watchful eye, glares down at the hunter’s kneeling form, burning eyes tracing his body. A sword hangs from her waist, glimmering sharply in the torchlight as she slowly approaches. 

“You-” She says, voice tight in suppressed fury. “Tell me why I should not kill you where you kneel.”

The hunter, taken entirely off guard, gapes. He tries to shape a question, of where he is, of what in all the hells is happening but is overruled by the woman bulling ahead, hand clasped firmly upon the grip of her sword.

“The Conclave destroyed, hundreds dead, including the most Holy!” She pauses, frustrated rage visibly mounting. “All save for you, who we found, clad in dragonscale armor, falling from the Fade itself at the very center of the explosion!”

“What?” The hunter manages. “An explosion? I-I don’t know what you’re talking about! I was, I was on a hunt and then...” he trails off, trying to piece together his fractured memory into some semblance of a coherent timeline.

The woman does not give him the chance, two quick steps bringing her to the hunters kneeling form and roughly grabbing him by both shoulders, practically snarling in his face. In the background, the other woman starts forward, face yet unchanging.

“You don’t know? You are the only suspect! The only survivor! How-”

“I can’t remember!” The hunter bellows, sheer volume prompting the surrounding guards to pull their swords, the other woman freezing in her tracks, hand darting towards her waist. “It’s a blank, all I remember is-” he pauses, scratching at the depths of his mind “-is a golden woman reaching out to touch me.” His hand, bound in front of him, twinges, a spark of flickering, acidic green floating from tightly wrapped bandages.

The women look to each other, expressions somewhere between hope, faith and distrust, something the hunter does not notice, as he has finally noticed his newest scar, eyes going wide as he reveals his palm and the hissing wound made upon it. “Leave us.” Leliana says curtly, gesturing at the guards. They do so quickly with a chorus of, “Yes, Ma’am’s”, though their eyes remain locked on the hunter as they go.

 _Well, that's new_ , he thinks to himself, eyes tracing the green tear embedded within his hand, intermittent flashes of light and forked lightning playing across calloused flesh. Suddenly, he remembers the burning woman, deceptively delicate hand brushing against his own and, through the overwhelming pain, a violent burst of green.

“We need him yet, Cassandra.” The other woman says quietly, pulling her companion from the hunter’s shoulders.

“Yes, Leliana, I know” the wo-Cassandra says, a note of… frustration infiltrating her voice. “That… wound is clearly something akin to the Breach outside. Something that may indeed be the key to closing it.”

The hunter lifts his head to meet Cassandra’s gaze. “Breach?” He asks confusedly.

Cassandra gives him a look that smacks of scorn, before it turns into grudging realization “Ah, you’ve been unconscious. The explosion tore a hole through the Veil, creating a portal between this world and the Fade. In the days since the blast, it has only been growing larger, with more and more demons coming through. It needs to be closed and, if you are innocent as you claim, you will help us do so.” She sighs harshly, some of the long-held anger dropping from her shoulders. “If you, of your own free-will, commit to stopping this catastrophe, it will go a great deal to convincing me that you are as you claim.”

Leliana, lurking behind Cassandra’s sheer presence, takes this moment to speak up. “Exposure to the mark nearly killed you. Had you truly been the mastermind behind the Conclave’s demise, I do not doubt you would have chosen to be elsewhere, far away from any potential fallout. However, being an ignorant lackey… that cannot be ruled out.”

“What were you hunting, prisoner?” Cassandra asks, preempting the hunter’s sputtering response. ”Your armor… most of the scales are unfamiliar but some are clearly draconic in nature, where were you before this?”

The hunter takes a breath, looking between the two women before starting to talk in a forcibly even tone. “Well. I was in the Ancient Forest, just having finished an expedition searching for a particularly rare species of mushroom a few miles west from Astera. I was about to return when, sorry it's a little… fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure I was going to hunt a Tobi-Kadachi, one that was.... haunted? My partner- wait a minute, where's my palico?”

“Your what?” Cassandra asks, clearly having been focused on the first part of his statement. “What is a “palico”?”

The hunter blinks. How did they not- maybe they knew them by a different name here. He tries again, wracking his brain for the name of their species. “A... Lynian then? He should have been with me, wherever I turned up.”

“You mean... the cat?” Cassandra asks slowly. “The soldiers who captured you said there was an odd-looking cat around, yes, but not anything further.”

“Ah” The hunter says, shifting uncomfortably in his bonds. “At least-” he cuts himself off, holding his tongue. Cassandra opens her mouth, about to ask another question, most likely about what exactly a Tobi-Kadachi is when Leliana cuts in.

“As interesting as this is, we have more pressing concerns at the moment.” 

Cold, considering eyes bore into the hunter’s own, captivating the totality of his attention. “What is your name, Prisoner?”

The hunter stares back, mouth a thin line. He is loath to give his name to anyone, especially within this particular circumstance. He is known by his role in Astera, as a Fiver, a Hunter and if one is especially close, his family name. Perhaps it’s different here, as both Cassandra and Leliana sound like personal names, given in the company of not only a stranger but a suspected criminal. And if it will get him from his shackles...

“My name,” He says with a certain amount of reluctance.” is Maxwell Tohm.”

“Very well.” Leliana says, piercing eyes trained on his own. “Maxwell Tohm. Will you pledge to close the Breach through whatever means necessary, even if it means harm will come to you?” 

.”I-” The hunter hesitates, but only for a second. If what they say is true, if he can truly help… he cannot, in good faith, ignore it. “Yes. I pledge to close the Breach through whatever means necessary.”

“Good.” Leliana says, almost seeming to mean it. 

She straightens, opening to the door to reveal the world outside, a gust of icy wind fluttering the torches as she does. “Cassandra, I will be heading to the fourth camp. I wish you luck with the Breach. May the Maker be with you both.”

“And with you.” Cassandra finishes, the well-practiced words flowing from her tongue as Leliana steps out into the cold outdoors, pulling the door closed behind her with a muffled thud.

Quickly, Cassandra unlocks the heavy manacles from around his wrists and ankles, the pig iron clanking loudly onto the stone floor. Maxwell gratefully straightens, joints cracking from the time spent kneeling. He is enormous, Cassandra suddenly realises, almost a head and a half taller than her and twice as broad. For a bare second, she wonders if he may have Qunari ancestry before forcibly banishing such thoughts from her head.

“My armor?” the hunter asks, “My sword? What of my things?”

“If you prove trustworthy, you may have them returned, but only after I deem you so.” She looks up at him, meeting his eyes with her own steely gaze “And I do not yet trust you.”

“Mm.” He says, rubbing at his wrists. “Shall we go?”

“After you, Tohm”. Cassandra says, gesturing to the door, one hand still firmly placed upon the hilt of her sword.

And so he goes.


	3. In Which The Hunter Meets His First Demon

Refugees surround the prisoner, angry, scared faces lashing out at the perceived architect of their misfortune, loudly accusing him of the death of their loved ones, the destruction of their homes and the murder of the Divine. Cassandra’s presence and that of the watchful eye emblazoned upon her breast keeps them from interfering with their path but only just. The sight of the prisoner, unfettered by any bonds, drives many to further rage, insults and tearful demands thrown towards his towering form. He seems ashamed under their vitriol, shoulders slumped and keeping his eyes focused ahead.

He could easily be called handsome, she quietly admits, his height, chiseled musculature and broad shoulders all good marks in his favor, marred only the harsh scarring that covers the majority of his well-tanned skin. Ropey scars large and small meander across his arms, punctuated here and there by well-healed burns and puncture wounds. Standing out from the rest, a brutal set of claw-marks carved along the side of his head tells of a close encounter of some unknown, but clearly vicious, beast. 

Despite his fearsome appearance, he remains trusting for a man in his position, almost naively so, agreeing to walk in front of her, a woman who threatened to kill him not ten minutes ago. Yes, her intention was to see if he would admit involvement if provoked, but if he had, she wouldn't have hesitated.

She had briefly considered binding him for the journey but dismissed it, the need to quickly build trust with the man more important than the momentary comfort of peasants and soldiers. The man, Maxwell, stares up at the Breach, open face seemingly entranced by the shifting vortex of magical power writhing in the distance. She does not blame him for the fascination, for he has not witnessed the horrors that lay below that Maker-cursed portal, of the horrifically burned bodies carried from the gaping pit that was once the holy Temple of Sacred Ashes, of the dark rumors of red lyrium breaking free from blasted earth. 

“No wonder you suspect me,” Maxwell says softly. “I know I wouldn’t—couldn’t!—cause this kind of devastation, but with my hand like _this_ , the evidence is compelling.”

As he says this, his hand flickers once more, fadelight burning bright as he hisses in pain, instinctively clutching the hand to his chest. The pain passes quickly, but as the man pulls his hand from his chest, she notices that the light has grown brighter, if by a little.

“As Leliana told you,” Cassandra says. “The mark was very close to killing you as you slept, the tireless work of a certain mage the only thing keeping it from stopping your heart. I can only guess what will happen next, unversed as I am in the _art_ of magic,” she sneers, “but I imagine it will be painful. It would be best to close the Breach as quickly as possible, something that will hopefully remove the mark from your hand in the process.“

“I... see.” the man responds slowly. “Mage?”

“Yes.” Cassandra says, remembering Solas’s form bent over the prisoner’s sweating body, painstakingly working at keeping the man alive. “We will likely meet with him soon. Though I can only hope that odious dwarf isn't still loite-.”

“Hold on, mages, as in people who do magic, exist here?” Maxwell asks, voice infused with disbelief. 

Cassandra raises an eyebrow. Wherever the Astera was, it had to have had mages in some capacity, they sprouted from every population like weeds from a field, to simply not have any to the point where an adult had never heard of them… that simply adds more questions onto this man’s already vague origins.

“Yes.” she answers, nodding solemnly to a passing soldier. “Magic exists throughout the entirety of Thedas, within every race and every creed. How do you not know this?”

“Throughout- Thedas? Is that” he pauses, making an all-encompassing gesture to the surrounding snow-capped mountains “this mountain range?”

With that, Cassandra stops cold in the middle of the snowy path, Maxwell continuing on for a few steps before he realizes that she’s stopped, turning to see her face fluctuating between confusion and slowly growing rage. 

“...Thedas is the continent we currently stand upon, and to the Chantry’s knowledge, the only true continent on the planet. So I ask you again, Maxwell Tohm, _how would you not know that?”_ She demands, watching his face, searching for any trace of humor, of anything other than honest confusion. There is none, the man nigh poleaxed by her words.

“What?” he says, deep voice strangled. “No, that… I was in the New World.” He thrusts the words forward like an offering, practically begging her to recognize it. She doesn't.

“Tell me exactly where you came from.” Cassandra orders, voice ringing with the steel of command. ” _Exactly._ ”

“I- Alright. I’m a hunter of the Fifth Fleet, a research expedition dispatched to discover the mechanism behind the elder dragon crossing in the New World, which is a newly accessible continent in the far west. Though if you’re asking about me personally, I’m originally from Taos, a small village within the Arcolis region. I left whe- **agh!** ”

His mark sparks, searing energy writhing within his hand as he crouches in sudden agony. Teeth gritted, he rides the wave of pain until it reaches its agonizing peak and fades some seconds later. Letting out a long, hoarse breath, he looks up at Cassandra, a look of weariness plain on his face.

“Recognize anything in what I said?”

“...No. I do not.” Cassandra says, face showing a fraction of the inner turmoil inside as she tries to decide whether he is insane, lying or, perhaps most unsettlingly, telling the truth. 

She doesn’t recognize anything beyond “elder dragons” which is almost certainly nothing, a high dragon by a different name. But Astera? Arocolis? Complete unknowns. She has heard brief mentions of other lands across the Amaranthine Ocean, yes, but nothing substantial. Perhaps west of the Hunterhorn mountains.... Wherever he comes from, the question remains on how he came to arrive here.

“Well.” He says tiredly. “That’s probably not good. Can we get going?”

“...Yes, but we will be speaking further on this.” After Cassandra pulls him to his feet, they proceed further up the icy hill, passing hastily constructed battlements as they go. 

“Yeah, of course, Ca… ah, do you have a title I can call you by?” the hunter asks, having clearly stopped himself from saying her name. She raises an eyebrow, firmly deciding to ignore the implications behind every other aspect of his existence in favor of focusing on this one, much less complicated, thing, at least for the moment.

“...Seeker will do, Tohm.” 

He flinches as she says his name, seeming almost embarrassed as the word passes her lips. Clearly contemplating on whether to make something of it, his lips thin and then, firming his resolve, he voices his request.

“And if we’re talking about names, I would also prefer it if you didn’t use the name I gave you.”

“What, Tohm?” He winces again. “Why not? It _is_ the one you gave.” She asks, bafflement seeping into her words. Her thoughts run rampant, thinking up a dozen half-baked scenarios for his request as they walk towards an ice-coated bridge.

Interrupting her thoughts, the hunter speaks up. “It’s just…it’s personal. Far too personal and we’ve only just met, at swordpoint no less. Just call me something else, anything else. Fiver or Hunter or something like that.”

Cassandra is just opening her mouth to reply when she hears a distant, horribly familiar whistling. Whipping her head up to the sky, she instantly spots it, a rapidly growing green dot in the sky, the faint sound of the air screaming as if in great pain audible even at this distance. Twisting towards the befuddled hunter before her, she pushes him forward as quickly as she is able, roaring at those ahead to move or die. The soldiers scatter like rats, Maxwell, to his credit, quickly parses her intentions and begins to run several seconds before the meteor, composed entirely of solidified fade essence, impacts the center of the bridge, obliterating the newly refurbished stonework instantly and collapsing the structure inward with the deafening roar of tons of crumbling stone.

The Seeker and her hunter companion leap for it, only barely missing the ledge, instead sliding down a rapidly disintegrating stone slide that dumps them ungracefully upon a bed of newly loose stone. They offer twin groans of pain, each shaking the sudden damage as befits their enhanced constitutions. 

“Tohm! Are you alright?” Cassandra calls, heaving herself to her feet, sword and shield firmly in hands as she stands vigilant against whatever may come.

“Yeah,” he wheezes from his place atop a ill-placed rock that has just driven the air from his lungs, “I’m good, just… winded. Just… gimme a second to catch my… breath.”

Before Cassandra’s feet, the fade bubbles up from the earth, the putrefying aura of a shade manifesting in the air, its malign presence draining its surroundings of what little warmth remains. Rising from the icy soil, its cadaverous form unfolds, toothy maw shrieking in some demonic tongue as it lunges forward, long, blade-like fingers hissing as they cut towards the Seeker’s body.

“Maker take you, **demon**!”

It dies nigh instantly, as a well-honed steel blade tears through its emaciated ribcage, followed a second later by a heavy shield viciously bashing it in the face, the twin blows reducing it into cloying, toxic smoke. This feat is met with the floor below glowing with toxic light, a dozen further shades manifesting and lunging towards the Seeker’s form. Screaming in rage, she meets their charge blade first.

Behind her, the hunter staggers to his feet, taking a deep, twinging breath as he watches the Seeker fight, shield flashing out to deflect deadly blows as her sword twists and jabs smoothly out from her guard to leave demon after demon dead. Then one shade, predatory instinct drawing it towards the other human, slithers at the hunter. Despite lacking legs, the demon moves quickly, undulating, worm-like torso bringing its grasping fingers closer to the man, even as he fruitlessly scrabbles at something out of sight.

The demon lets out a triumphant cackle, already imagining cleaving deep into the man’s back, the sweet give of the flesh and the resistance of bone as- And the shade dies, cut top to bottom by the hunter’s newly acquired broadsword, five feet of forged steel slicing through dessicated fadeflesh and burying itself inches deep into the cold, dense ground. 

The hunter pulls the sword from the frozen soil, squinting over at the battle in progress, Cassandra having already torn her way through half of the shades and vigorously working on killing the rest, a slightly more taxing proposition as the remaining demons, witnessing the deaths of their brethren, have become far more defensive, keeping back as they circle Cassandra's form and wait for an opening.

This tactic becomes difficult to maintain, however, as the hunter bullrushes his way into the fight, his opening slash tearing unfortunate two demons apart in a mess of dilapidated bone and rotten flesh, causing enough of a distraction for Cassandra to kill another with an absolutely brutal shield bash, pulverising the mass of needle-thin teeth it calls a mouth before messily continuing through the rest of its hunched body. The final demon screechs in dismay and turns to flee, frozen riverbed turning into something less than real under its slippery tread. It does not make it far, the hunter lunging, his sword, while certainly not meant for thrusting, coring the demon with a heavy crunch.

Cassandra turns to the hunter, eyes first fastening onto the broadsword now plunged point-down into the icy ground, then to his face, searching for something she cannot adequately name, an amorphous sign of trustworthiness. The hunter raises an eyebrow and Cassandra huffs shortly, turning towards the path over a frozen lake leading towards the still distant Breach.

“I... suppose you can keep the blade.” Cassandra says, before sweeping her gaze back over to stare the hunter down, naked threat looming in her eyes.”But if you even _think about-”_

“I wouldn't dare, Seeker.” The hunter interrupts, a small smile on his lips as he follows her. “Besides, demons? Those things were demons?”

“...Yes, they were. There are no demons in your... New World, then?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Hm. That sounds... hm.”

…

…

“Wish I had my sketchbook, I’d love to get these demons down on paper.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ve always enjoyed sketching. It helps clear the mind, as well as giving the monsters I hunt some... definition. I suppose these demons are no different, in that way.”

“Hm. I suppose I cannot fault you for that. If-When this is done, I will see that you have it returned, alongside the rest of your belongings.“

“Really? Thanks Seeker, that means a lot.”

“Think nothing of it. If we succeed, it is a small thanks, and if we fail, I doubt you will live to care.

…

....

“Is that green thin-” 

“A demon? Yes, it is. Get ready to charge, it can throw fade-fire.” 

“Right.”

…

…

“Well, that was easy.”

“Quite.”


	4. In Which The Hunter Reveals His Ignorance

Several skirmishes later, Cassandra and Maxwell climb steep, uneven steps carved into the side of a mountain, the sounds of battle clashing just above. Trading glances, they speed to a run, feet pounding as they crest the top to see a battlefield laid out before them. Several soldiers lay dead, bright, crimson blood splattered upon the muddy, downtrodden snow, the rest of their number desperately fighting to avoid their fellows' fate. Among the defenders, fight a pair of odd-looking wyverians, one tall and wielding a crackling staff, the other short and wielding a well-crafted bowgun. A shuddering portal looms behind the fighting, streamers of fade-light framing a writhing, crystalline heart that, as they watch, disgorges a pair of screeching demons.

Maxwell takes a moment to steady himself, the off-tempo beat of the mark accelerating as he approaches the rift, a burning pain lancing from the wound. Cassandra, holding no such weakness, charges, a prayer to the Maker booming proudly from her lips.

A moment later, the hunter follows, broadsword taking a shade at the waist and continuing onward through limb and neck alike until the ichor from half a dozen demons coats the blade. After the demons are dead and the battle concludes, his mark pulses once more, the unnatural heartbeat speeding into a pounding that reverberates within his bones, filling his arm with searing agony. He can faintly feel someone grab his hand and thrust it towards the rift, only realizing what has happened when the pressure, crawling slowly, painfully up his arm, is _hooked,_ the rift reeling it in all at once, manifesting a stream of brilliant, crackling energy that plunging into the portal and seals it shut.

A sudden silence yawns through the thoroughly devastated keep, Maxwell panting briefly as he regains his breath, glad at the pain’s departure but still shocked at the sheer magnitude it had reached. He glances down at his hand, mark steaming in the cold mountain air.

“What,” he gasps at the taller wyverian who just released his hand, “was that? Was that-?”

The man—bald, pointy eared with five-fingered hands???—cuts Maxwell off with a raised hand and small smile, “That was all you, I'm afraid. I only gave you a push in the right direction”

“And... is it supposed to… pull like that?” He makes a fist, light flaring at a fraction of the intensity it had moments before. It simmers like the last embers of a cookfire, ready to ignite into a roaring bonfire given the merest hint of fuel.

He chuckles. “I would not know. Your condition,“ He gestures at the hunters still flickering hand “is, as far as I know, unique.” The wyverian grows more serious “That said, I would advise removing it as soon as possible as its effects have been… somewhat severe.”

“Ah,” Maxwell says, snapping his fingers as realization dawns.“You’re the mage! The one that kept my heart from exploding in my sleep!”

“I- Yes, I suppose I am.” The wyverian says, abruptly thrown off balance by the sudden change in subject and again as the larger man claps a heavy, calloused hand upon his shoulder, smiling broadly as he makes uncomfortably direct eye contact.

“Thank you for saving my life!” Maxwell says earnestly, quickly rebounding from the once-overwhelming pain, wondering instead if he should go in for a bear-hug.“So much! If there’s anything you need, please just ask!”

The wyverian behind him, the short one, lets out a quiet, choked laugh, presumably at the expression on the mage’s face, that of hastily hidden surprise and a desperate scramble to regain composure. Quickly sliding his shoulder out from under the comradely hand, he clears his throat awkwardly.

“Yes, that- You are very welcome.” The mage says, reorganizing his thoughts before continuing on his prior train of thought. 

“Moving on, I theorize that the Breach,” He gestures vaguely to the writhing sky above, “and the mark upon your hand are indeed connected, created by the same magic that caused the explosion. That mark may be the only chance we have of closing it in truth, something we need to attempt quickly before the Breach swells further and dooms us all.”

“The apostate is correct.,” Cassandra says from behind them, one eyebrow arched as she looks at Maxwell. “Which is why we cannot tarry any further. We must press on. Now.”

“Seeker!” the chest-baring wyverian says in mock shock. “Trying to leave without even introducing me? How cruel can you be, to deprive our new friend of my wonderful company?”

“Ugh.” Cassandra disdainfully scoffs in response, eyes narrowing as she takes in the man’s diminutive stature striding confidently towards the hunter. 

And he is diminutive indeed, perhaps eye-level with Maxwell's hips if he were to straighten, curiously lacking the characteristics of the wyverians the hunter’s met throughout his travels. No digitigrade legs, no trace of scales upon his exposed chest and once again, five fingers. He supposes it may be just how they manifest here in Thedas. Wyverians are a varied bunch to be sure, height, scales and amount of facial hair often vastly different, seemingly determined by sheer chance rather than recognizable genetics, but there are always similarities. Similarities that these two lack.

He’ll have to ask them later.

“Hello, up there!” The maybe-wyverian calls, an easy smile on his lips. “Varric Tethras, master writer, storyteller and in this particular moment, fellow prisoner. At your service.” He gives a mock bow, winking at Cassandra, who replies with predictable disdain.

“You were brought here for a purpose, Varric, and that purpose is now…” Cassandra pauses, well-hidden grief surging but for a moment.”unable to be fulfilled. You are _technically_ free of your obligation to be present and I am truly surprised you’ve not already fled in the chaos.”

“Seeker! You’d honestly think I’d leave you fine folks alone with demons?” He sniffs in transparently false offense. “I know I’m not the most honest of dwarves, but I’d like to think I’m better than that.”

“You-” 

The taller wyverian clears his throat, cutting off Cassandra's furious rebuttal as he turns to face the hunter. “Trust me, they will fight like this for quite some time if left to their own devices. I am Solas, if there are to be introductions.”

_There it is again_ , Maxwell thinks, _so casual about names_. Should he reciprocate or insist on a title? What title would even be applicable? Prisoner? Hunter? These people have given their own names, should he not give his own? It’s embarrassing to be sure, but if withholding it would be insulting...

_...when in Thedas_ , he thinks, offering an apologetic smile to the wyverian still patiently waiting for a reply.

“While I’m not really used to using it, my name is Maxwell.”

“Well then, Maxwell, It is very nice to meet you.” Solas smoothly says. 

“Right, if introductions are finished, we head to the forward camp without further delay.” With that, she sets off, quickly followed by the rest of the group.

“Not used to using it, huh?” Varric says, as they start moving further up the mountain. “What does that mean? You a noble or something?”

Maxwell laughs. “No, I’m not a noble, its just- I’m used to only using a title. In Astera, personal names are for very close friends, family and lovers, not,” he gestures expansively, “everyone you meet, but you all seem to use them so I thought, hey, why not.”

“Huh,” Varric says. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of that kind of tradition before. Where’s Astera at? Orlais? Ferelden? Out in the Frostbacks maybe? You’ve got that hulking Avvar look going.”

Maxwell is about to try and answer to the best of his ability, read: very little, when Cassandra interrupts with another question, giving Maxwell a pointed look the man completely misses.

“And what titles did you use? Earlier, you said Hunter or— _what was it_ —Fiver?” 

“Yeah, those were the common ones, Hunter for my profession, Fiver for Fifth fleet, and sometimes something more personalized depending on what you’ve done or how you’re feeling. I was the easygoing fiver for a bit then the determined hunter for a good while. It changes for any number of reasons really, those are just the most common.”

“Interesting,” Solas says. “somewhat akin to the spirits then, using similar names with unique additions and accents to differentiate individuals. Tell me, did your Astera have a spirit population of some kind or was it simply inspired by such?

Thankfully for Cassandra’s spirited attempt at covering up Maxwell’s utter lack of worldly knowledge, they are interrupted before he can ask what the hell a spirit is. An ambushing pack of ephemeral wisps, cadaverous shades and one especially fancy-looking demon erupting from the cracked surface of a frozen-over lake, howling and clawing their way towards the group. Blades are unsheathed, a sourceless flame sparks into existence and a beautifully crafted crossbow is cranked tight.

The demons last a collective twenty-three seconds.

“Maker, Scars, save some for the rest of us.” Varric huffs good naturedly, eyeing the ichor covered broadsword Maxwell hefts over his shoulder. 

“Sca-oh, because of this?” The newly nicknamed hunter chuckles, running a hand over the brace of gruesome scars covering the side of his head. ”That works!”

“Good to hear!” Varric says, starting up the next hill. “It’s either that or Handy, so please, take your pick.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but _are_ you innocent in all this?” Varric asks after another scuffle with a pack of demons.

“Well, I’m pretty sure I am, mostly ‘cause I’m not sure how I could have possibly pulled something like this off, but on the other hand, I’m missing a whole lot of memories, so who really knows.” Maxwells says contemplatively, pulling his broadsword from the rapidly disintegrating corpse of an unfortunate demon.

“Is that what you told her?” Varric asks, gesturing over at Cassandra.“Because I’ll tell you now, that probably wasn’t the best move. What _I_ would have done is-”

“Yes, Dwarf, we know you would’ve constructed an elaborate ruse to escape, most likely robbing us on the way out,” Cassandra interrupts, scorn dripping from her voice like venom.”which is why if you were the one with the mark, I would have cut your head from your shoulders before the first lie could fall from your mouth.“

“Oh Seeker, you’re all heart.” Varric smirks. “But yeah, admittedly that _is_ probably what I'd end up doing, uh, minus the beheading if at all possible.

“Ugh.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So.” Maxwell says quietly to a nearby Solas, chosen both because of his apparent wisdom in things the hunter does not know, and because Cassandra is currently yelling at the incredibly disgruntled man that had just attempted to order his execution. “I'm still kinda confused. I get why he wants to kill me, ‘cause of the, y’know,” He gestures up at the shattered sky. “but, what, exactly, is the Chantry?”

Varric, apparently too close to miss the hunter’s whispered question, jerks in mute surprise, gaze switching from the escalating shouting match to apparent heathenism in a heartbeat. Solas arches his eyebrows, full attention granted to the apparently innocent question laid at his feet. Wetting his tongue, Solas steals a look at the arguing andriastians before leaning towards the hunter’s comparatively bulky form.

“The Chantry,” he replies, voice pitched as to avoid the blatantly eavesdropping Varric. “is the dominant religious body in this land. It’s tenets include a fanatical hatred of magic, distrust of the Fade and penance for perceived sins. As such, many, including the good Chancellor Rodrick, have a particularly dim view of you.”

“Huh.” Maxwell says consideringly. “Then- **herrgh!** ”

The mark pulses painfully once more, writhing fractals of lightning boiling forth as the Breach overhead swells. Mercifully brief this time, the light soon fades to a sullen glimmer. Maxwell takes a tight breath, straightening from his pain-included hunch. The sunburst clad man sneers, face well-suited to the expression. He starts to say something before Cassandra cuts him off.

“ _Chancellor_ Rodrick, there is no time to waste with further pointless discussion, when the Breach is so clearly expanding! We must advance alongside the remnants of the soldiery before it is too late! Prisoner!” she shouts, shaking the hunter from his focus on controlling out his breaths. “Get moving, we will have need of that mark.”

“And Leliana,” she says to the woman standing next to the quietly fuming man. “Gather everyone who can hold a weapon, we will need all we can get. And-” She beckons her closer, eyes flicking to Maxwell for a brief second.

Leliana, after quickly leaning in to listen to Cassandra’s whispered message, breaks off, quickly jogging down the bridge, sharp eyes briefly resting upon Maxwell as she does.

“Upon your head lie the consequences, _Seeker_!” the Chancellor calls impotently towards their receding backs.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Alright Scars,” Varric says, clearly having held the question until they were out of Rodrick’s earshot. “I’ve gotta ask, ‘cause I know this one’s going to be one hell of a story, but why don’t you know what the Chantry is?”

“What?” Cassandra says, stiffening.

“I will admit, I am curious as well.” Solas adds. “The Chantry’s reach is quite long, to remain entirely ignorant of its existence is... quite the accomplishment.”

“Oh, well it's pretty simple,” Maxwell says, shrugging broadly. “I’m not from Thedas.”

Cassandra lets out a harsh exhalation of concentrated frustration, rounding on the much larger man. “I had hoped to keep that under wraps, Hunter.” she hisses. But instead, in the _two minutes_ I was distracted, you manage to tell both the worst gossip I’ve ever met and an apostate!”

“It was a secret?” Maxwell asks, brows rising in surprise. “Why-”

“Because we do not need complications right now! The world is at stake, Maxwell! We do not have time for the questions your existence invites!

“Wait, hol-” Varric tries to cut in to no avail, Cassandra bulling onward as if he didn’t exist.

“Until the Breach is safely closed, it is a distraction we simply cannot afford.”

“I- Yeah, I’ll admit that makes sense, bigger problems and all that.” Maxwell allows. “But I know nothing about Thedas. I’ve never heard of the Chantry or-or the Avvar or spirits or anything everyone else makes constant reference to. Am I to remain quiet whenever someone asks, hoping they’ll go away?”

“Yes!” Cassandra answers through half-gritted teeth. "And If we are exceptionally lucky, we can close the Breach within the hour! Can you not pretend muteness for an hour?”

There is a long silence, broken only by the wind howling through the valley and the distant sound of men mustering for war. Varric looks to Cassandra, then to Maxwell, now clearly just watching the argument unfold while Solas waits quietly, brow creased in thought, interest piqued by the hunter’s admission.

“Fine. Sure. But after this-” 

Cassandra laughs shortly. “Rest assured, Hunter, whatever happens today, we will be having a _very_ long conversation tomorrow.”

“...I’ll look forward to it.”

“As will I.” One part of the group's silence assured, she turns to glare heatedly at Varric, who looks back, a wary smile on his lips. “And _you_. You will say nothing, Dwarf, if you wish to keep-”

“Yeah, yeah, _if you wish to keep your head on your shoulders, you’ll do as I say,_ I know, I’ve heard it all before” His smile fades at her growl, allowing a more serious demeanor to shine through. ”Seriously though, Seeker, I know how to keep a secret safe, especially at times like this.”

Cassandra squints down at him for a long moment. “I have my reservations but… I will trust you on this, Varric. Please, do not make me regret it.”

Finally, Cassandra looks to Solas who raises his hands in surrender. “No need for threats, I quite agree, any distraction at this point has the potential to be disastrous, however interesting the secret. You can count on my silence as well, Seeker Pentaghast.” 

Cassandra lets out a long, drawn out sigh, letting her bone-deep weariness show for a bare second before she sets her shoulders once more. “I’m glad we’ve resolved this. Now, Leliana’s soldiers will be assembling shortly. I suggest we join them.” 

It is not a suggestion.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So... Scars-” 

_“Varric, I swear to Andraste-”_


	5. In Which The Hunter Hunts Once More

It is a long, uphill trek to the shattered ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, fierce gales of icy snow whipping against every inch of exposed skin even as the Breach gyrates endlessly above their heads. Maxwell, as well used as he is to the extreme conditions of the New World, is suffering, the infrequent agony of the mark mixing with the biting chill to create a particularly unpleasant climb. 

As he determinedly places one foot in front of the other, he thinks longingly of the drink he knows he has tucked away in his pack, a particularly volcanic brew made from hot peppers, crushed might seeds and a singular drop of Odogaron blood. He can taste it now, the wildfire burn of it on his tongue, the brief moment of nausea as it hits his stomach before it spreads a feverish heat through his body. Another arctic gust hits him, gooseflesh shivering underneath his ill-fitting armour, the padding barely more than a double-layer of thin cotton, nothing against the mountain cold. He misses his armour and warmth and surety it brings.

Varric is quiet, past levity faltering under the oppressive weight of the Breach and the sickening scent of burnt human flesh wafting by on the wind. He remembers the moment it happened, of looking up to see a mountain vanish in a bright flash of light, pit in his stomach opening wide as he realized what had happened. In the green vortex overhead, there are flashes of movement, traceries of spiders legs, eyeless faces and long, inhuman hands. Varric doesn't like it, not at all. His lips thin as he watches the sky turn, fingers tightening around Bianca’s heavy stock.

Cassandra leads the group, eyes focused ahead, ever away from the howling abyss above her head. She is praying, murmuring fervently under her breath as she strides through shin-deep snow, lips forming words she has recited a thousand times before, yet no less true for their repetition. 

_In the long hours of the night_

_When hope has abandoned me,_

_I will see the stars and know_

_Your Light remains._

The stars have been obscured these last few nights. She tries not to let it shake her, but the sight of hundreds of glimmering stars, manifestations of the Maker’s watchful eyes upon Thedas, obscured by the vagrancies of the Fade- It is an ill omen indeed. But her faith yet remains

Solas watches the sky in regretful silence, melancholic thoughts his own.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  


Maxwell spots the rift, the gaping tear in space slowly rotating in place as a clash of battle echos from underneath. The sound of screaming men and women and the already distinctive cackle of demons drifts over the wind.

Cassandra starts running, unlimbering her sunburst-clad shield from her back as she unsheathes her sword. Maxwell doesn’t hesitate, the deliberate, stamina-conserving gait of the last half-hour gone in a second to be replaced by an all-out sprint, a move quickly followed by Solas and Varric.The hunter’s boot-clad feet pound against the rocky slope as he accelerates, the shape of the fight becoming clear as he closes. A desperate band of soldiers is defending a tent from a gaggle of demons who dart and scream and cut at them in turn. 

These demons are different, Maxwell realises, long and spindly creatures towering over even him, sporting long, jagged claws. As he watches, he sees one such demon dive into the ground with a flash of that same light that feeds the Breach high above, reappearing seconds later underneath an unfortunate soldier to run him through the chest with its barbed tail. 

Enraged by the man’s death, Cassandra plunges headfirst into the fight, sword flashing through the air to cut the demon’s tail clean from its body. It shrieks, a teeth-grating noise of agony, before the hunter, no more than a few running steps behind Cassandra, brings his broadsword swinging downward viciously at the demon, the heavy blow cleaving deep into its shoulder with a sound like chopping damp firewood.

At this intimate distance, the demon proves much more disturbing, what the hunter had taken as multiple insectile eyes were instead empty, gaping holes bored deep into the thing's face. The second of mute shock is enough for the demon to retaliate, screeching directly into the hunters face at punishing volume, the sound a horrifying mix of every monstrous roar, every scuttling insect, every scream of pain the man has ever heard. Unfortunately for the demon, the intended attack slams into one of Maxwell’s most ingrained muscle memories, something hammered into his very being by years of hunting the most dangerous creatures in the New World, a trigger that tells him one thing: _go for the head while it's busy roaring_. So Maxwell, eyes suddenly refocusing, takes a single step back, sending five feet of broadsword swinging through the demons head. The scream cuts off abruptly, as the demon, now extremely headless, collapses into a pile of smouldering cinders.

Maxwell blinks, shrugs at a gaping soldier, and lunges at an approaching shade, restarting his attack. The next few minutes are a blur, as battle always is, a kaleidoscope of individual motions and judgments made in the moment and immediately forgotten in favor of the next. Whatever the particulars, it ends with demons dead and, following another painful experience, the rift closed.

“You are getting proficient at this.” Solas says, walking around from where Maxwell slumps upon what was once a statue, all distinguishing features torn away during the blast. ”Closing rifts that is. I have no doubts you were a fearsome combatant before all of this.”

Letting out a short huff, Maxwell turns to Solas, a smile rising on his face as he wipes monstrous ichor from his blade. 

“I would hope so, given all the pain it's putting me through.”

“The mighty _ghi'myelan_ , defeated by mere pain.” Solas says dramatically before offering a hand glowing with a soft white light. “Here, this will help.”

The hunter stares at the hand for a second before looking to Solas with wide eyes.

“Oh- Yes, I had forgotten-” His eyes dart quickly to Cassandra, currently otherwise occupied talking to a blonde man in ornate, fur-lined armor. “-your _rural_ upbringing. There is nothing to fear, it will only ease the pain of the mark.”

Maxwell's expression of surprise slowly turns to one of delight and curiosity. “By the Sapphire Star above.” He whispers, calloused hand reaching out to gently touch the warmly glowing light. 

“This-this is _magic._ ” He says quietly, voice filled with wonder.

“...Yes.” Solas pauses, taken aback as the much larger man closely examines his hand, fingers passing through the haze. “Do you still require...” He coughs, retracting his hand. “relief?”

“Oh! Ah- yes, please do.” Maxwell says eagerly, holding his marked hand out to Solas, expectantly watching as the man slowly wraps his hands around the wound, the feeling of rushing water, cool and pure, permeating his hand, displacing the constant smouldering heat that took up residence with the mark. He flexes his hand in wonder, watching the light flare with only the barest hint of pain.

“Wow! That’s...” Maxwell searches for the right word. “refreshing! Thanks again, my friend!”

“I would not be so quick to thank me,” Solas says, shaking the spell from his hands with quick, efficient flicks. “It is a temporary treatment, one I’ve perfected over the last few days. It will only last until the Breach expands again or, most likely, when you close another rift. ”

“Ah well.” Maxwell shrugs. “I still appreciate it. And it's not really the pain that bothers me anyway.”

At Solas’s raised eyebrow, Maxwell explains. “Well, when I'm wounded like this,” He gestures to the prominent scars across his skull. “physically. I know what's wrong, I know how it hurts, how it affects my movement and what I can do to treat it. This?” He waves his fade-marked hand. “No idea. I don’t like that.”

Solas hums. “I suppose I understand. Uncertainty is indeed a frightening thing. If my… expert opinion reassures you, if the mark does close the Breach, It should also stop the pain, if not remove the mark entirely.”

The hunter laughs, “Your expert opinion? I suppose if there’s no one to say differently...”

“Indeed.” Solas chuckles along with the man beside him. “Not many at all.”

“Anyway, that’s good to-”

“Hunter!” Cassandra calls, walking across the ravaged courtyard with the blonde man following close behind. “We’re moving in on the Breach. Soon.”

“This is the prisoner then?” The man says, eyes flicking across Maxwell’s form, lingering on the fadelight dripping from his hand. “I hope it was worth it, bringing you here.”

“So do I.” The hunter replies simply, straightening up from his makeshift seat. “Everyone's been very focused on this.” He waves his fade-touched hand. ”I can only hope it wasn’t all for nothing.”

“Hm, we will see soon enough.“ The man says, touch of weariness coloring his words, before turning back to Cassandra.

“We will be staying here, defending the wounded against further attack. Leliana has sent word, she will be meeting up with you shortly.” He looks back to Maxwell, a flicker of hope surfacing in tired eyes. ”I wish you luck in closing the Breach for good. May the Maker be with you all.”

“And with you, Commander.”

Maxwell, still somewhat unclear on the intricacies of their faith, nods as solemnly as he can, letting out an internal fist-pump when no-one immediately accuses him of heresy. He looks to Cassandra, the Breach overhead casting her skin a pale, washed-out green.

“It seems the time has come.” she says. “Let us hope this works.”

Things move very quickly afterward, their small group approaching the epicenter of the blast through a charred field filled with calcified corpses, expressions speaking to horrific pain they experienced in their final moments. They are unnerving, some still aflame, all with the distinct scent of burning flesh wafting from them. Some still have eyes, clouded and unmistakably dead, yes, but Maxwell could swear that they are watching him still.

The group passes them without incident, weapons kept at the ready, waiting for an attack that never comes. Varric lets out a sigh of relief as they enter what was once the temple proper, marked by a sunken stone hallway, largely crumbled from the force of the blast. He begins to speak, perhaps something about the corpses outside, perhaps not, but stops himself as he lays eyes upon the epicenter of it all. A gargantuan knot of crystal turns in the air, geometrically unsound spires of fade energies emerging and decaying in a constant, shifting pattern. The surrounding crater walls pulse in time with the Breach, veins of fade-light threading throughout the rock.

It is a rift, the largest Maxwell has seen yet, and at its peak, a cyclone of whirling fade filaments reach up towards the Breach above. His mark thrums, Solas’s magic slightly dulling the burn, but not the sensation of looming threat, the gut-feeling of a thunderstorm on the horizon, of tiny neck hairs standing on end before the lightning finally strikes. Something is going to happen, his long experience whispers, something big.

Before they can descend in truth, Varric freezes, hand moving to point accusingly at a vibrantly crimson crystal breaking forth from the distant crater wall. 

”Is that-” Naked horror chokes his voice. “Seeker, that's red lyrium. Why the hell is it _here_?”

“I do not know, Varric,” Cassandra says quietly. “only that it began growing shortly after the ashes had settled. Its origins are as unknown to me as they are to you.”

“Perhaps a vein of lyrium beneath the temple was drawn to the surface, and then corrupted? The amount of magic needed to create a rift on this scale-” Solas pauses, considering. “There is no telling what could have happened.”

“Right, Scars, something real important you should know.” Varric says, urgency filling his words as he turns to the hunter. “Red Lyrium is bad shit. Real bad. Don’t get near it and for the love of Andraste, do _not_ touch it.”

“Gotcha.” The hunter eyes the apparently dangerous crystal. It glimmers enticingly, ghoulish fade-light reflecting from its bloody surface. “No touching.” 

Leliana arrives quickly, bringing along with her two dozen soldiers bearing heraldry from a menagerie of different noble houses and chantry orders, their lords, ladies, brothers and sisters leaving their units orphaned in the aftermath of the blast. Rudderless and adrift, they have attached themselves to the last recognizable bastion of Chantry authority, Leliana, the Left Hand of the now deceased Divine. 

She shares words with Cassandra, quietly speaking into her ear, before Cassandra nods succinctly, gesturing for their small group to follow her. They begin to maneuver themselves down the ruins of a staircase, only to be interrupted by the rift convulsing. A reverberating voice full of malice booms out across the crater.

**“Bring forth the Sacrifice.”**

From around the crater, every head looks up, searching for the source of the voice. It is coming from the rift, swirling vortices of the fade forming a vague presence of a woman held through magical forces and that of a tall, malformed man. Their features are non-existent, mere suggestions of a person.

 **“Be still!”** The voice hisses viciously, quickly followed by a harsh gasp of pain, the outline of the woman contorting in evident agony.

 **“Someone! Help me!”** The woman's voice cries out desperately, Cassandra stiffening in response. 

“Divine Justinia!” She gasps, an expression warring between fury and grief on her face. “How-”

She is cut off by a phantasmal door appearing only to be immediately barged open by a new figure. It is a tall man, form obscured by thick, dragonscale armor. Brandishing a truly monstrous sword, he takes the scene in, before speaking.

 **“Now, I’m not sure where the hell I am, but I do know i'm gonna need you to let her go.”** He takes a step forward, massive sword raised towards the monstrous outline before him.

 **“You must run! Bring help! He plans to-”** The Divine screams once before she is silenced, outline fading into scattered fade-stuff **.**

 **“Kill the intruder. Now.”** The inhuman figures orders, and the scene fades away, replaced by the oddly gentle sound of the rift undulating. There is a moment of stunned silence before Cassandra rounds on Maxwell.

“You _were_ there! What _was_ that creature? What happened to the Divine? Where did-”

“I still don’t know, Seeker! I just- don’t remember! I’m sorry.”

“It is a memory, trapped as amber within the Fade.” Solas states, stepping into the conversation. “Perhaps it is yours, Hunter, torn from you during whatever calamity created the Breach, animated by the mark’s presence.”

“Huh.” Maxwell says. ”Could I get those memories back?

“That depends, are you willing to physically enter the Fade to find them?”

”I mean, ye-”

“Hunter.” Cassandra interrupts, looking at him with eyes filled with frustrated anger, undoubtedly focused upon the killer of the Divine. “You are stalling. Are you truly ready to do this?”

“I-” Maxwell starts, only to realize he has nothing to say. “Yes. I am.”

“And Solas,” She says, steely gaze switching to the mage. “Is this to be the same as the other rifts?”

“You are likely correct, Seeker. As you can see, this rift is currently closed, but improperly. Reopening the gate is surely necessary to seal it in truth. Unfortunately, once the rift opens-”

“Demons will pour out.” Cassandra finishes grimly.

“Indeed. Powerful ones, most likely.”

“Of course.” Cassandra says disdainfully, before bellowing orders to the surrounding soldiers. “MAKE READY! ARCHERS, FOCUS YOUR FIRE ON SOFT TARGETS! FIGHTERS, WITH ME!”

“Hunter,” she calls as Maxwell takes his place. “Good luck.”

With that, he is in front of the rift, mark crackling in apparent anticipation. Soldiers armed with a variety of weapons spread across the arena-like space at the bottom of the crater, archers stringing their bows as they tuck themselves in surrounding alcoves. His newfound companions are arrayed around him, weapons and magic held in sure hands.

They are waiting for him.

He takes a deep breath. He will not disappoint.

Exhaling in preparation, Maxwell raises his fade-marked hand and, flexing something dug deep within his soul, tears the rift wide open. The mark shudders painfully in his palm, Solas’s magic shattering as now familiar agony surges. He knows it will be worse when he closes it in truth.

However, there is no time to ponder this as demons, in all their ravenous masses, boil forth from the rift. Maxwell meets them with a feral grin and wild yell, broadsword slashing outwards, scything them down in screeching multitudes. As he fights, he catches brief, snapshot glances of his new companions each tearing their way through the overwhelming tide of demonic flesh. 

Cassandra, a wall of precisely brutal shield bashes and thrusts, efficiently decapitates a screeching terror before moving onto the next, Varric, staying well back from the escalating melee, puts a bolt between the eyes of a flanking shade about to savage a lucky soldier, and Solas, using _magic_ , elegantly swings his bladed staff, calling a bolt of lightning screaming down from the sky, the arcing current frying a group of wisps haunting the edge of the battle.

He’s enjoying himself, the sensation of having fellow hunters— _well, sort of_ —around him once more and the promise that this strange foray will soon be completed pulling a touch of genuine mirth to his face, which is when the rift shudders once more, a molten, pounding flavor of pain driving itself deep into his palm.

Hissing in agony, Maxwell looks up in time to see something new step forth from the portal, blue-grey hide sparking with electric might. The air pressure drops like a stone as the scent of a thunderstorm, rain-wet earth and ozone, cuts sharply through the stink of the battlefield, looming threat palatable as hairs on the back of every neck stand on end, ears popping as they behold the beast responsible.

Across the battlefield, man and demon alike freeze, instinctively recognizing the import of the next moment and that interrupting would invite the creature's attention in truth. Those able to resist the choking tension suffusing the air slowly ready their next attacks, waiting for combat to be inevitably rejoined. Slitted eyes full of malice peer out at the assembled humanity, viper-like head held predator still as it regards the battlefield before moving its gaze to rest squarely upon Maxwell.

He recognizes the creature, how could he not? He’s hunted many, some who encroached on Astera’s ever-expanding borders, some that had thought to hunt him instead, and some merely for their parts and base thrill of the hunt. A Tobi-Kadachi, undoubtedly from the Ancient Forest, stands before them. It acts oddly now, far too calm for its breed. It is a predator, yes, but an ambush one, preferring to attack from behind and electrocute its prey into unconsciousness before striking the killing blow. To stand in front of dozens of warriors and demons beside… there is an unnatural glint in its eye, the glint of true, malign intelligence.

Then it speaks, voice the low rumble of distant thunder passing through a mouth clearly not designed for words but forced to accommodate them anyway. 

“ **Well then.** ” It chuckles menacingly, words thick with satisfaction. “ **What have we here? Men and Elf and Dwarf all aligned against little. old. me.** **And, oh!** ” The wyvern makes a sound that, if one is willing to overlook quite a few things, resembles a laugh. “ **The Hunter! My dear host embossed** ** _you_** **quite indelibly within its primitive mind. How rude you were, attacking this poor,** ** _defenseless_** **creature without so much as fair warning**.” The monster tuts, digging razor-sharp foreclaws into the stone beneath, hindquarters bunching in naked preparation. “ **Such unkindness should be repaid in kind, don’t you agree?** ”

With that, the Monster lunges at the Hunter, commencing a dance as old as humanity. On one side, humankind with all its intelligence, creating its own fangs and scales and wings, on the other, unending evolution writ large, the survival of the fittest culminating in a perfectly deadly predator, entirely suited to its environment. Around the beast, the battle resumes, demons renewing their attack as one, inhuman morale soaring as their fortunes turn in the presence of the powerful demon.

The battle surrounding the combatants is pushed from the hunter’s mind, his focus narrowing to the monster ahead, the ground they fight upon and the weight of his weapon in his hand. While not the reassuring form of his favored greatsword, this new broadsword is serviceable, edge sharp enough to draw blood and heavy enough to hack through demonic bone. This Tobi-Kadachi, however, is different from those he’s fought before, faster, stronger and processing a greater wealth of control over electricity than its brethren, rivaling the Zinogre in sheer voltage. 

“ **I suppose I should thank you,** **_Hunter_ ** **.** ” The monster spits his title, arcing claws spreading wide as it tries to maul him. “ **Leading a creature so well suited for my tastes right into the heart of my demesne?** ” It inhales, whips of condensed lighting sashing outward. “ **It almost seems intentional! A** **_gift,_ ** **freely given. You** **_flatterer!_ **”

His short-cropped hair stands on end as he rolls under another savage bite, its long fangs humming with enough current to stop his heart. As he recovers, he lands a long slash along the beasts flank, slicing deep into the loose glide-skin bunched at its side. It roars in angry pain, a sound long familiar to the hunter. Whirling, the beast opens its mouth, actinic light boiling forth as a fractaline bolt of lightning lashes forth, only narrowly misses the wildly dodging man.

 **“Stand** **_still,_ ** **Hunter!** **_”_ ** The demon hisses in frustration, spitting another bolt to no avail. 

_There's one advantage_ , Maxwell thinks to himself, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Whatevers driving the Tobi doesn't know how to use its body to full effect. No tail strikes, no gliding, and no overcharge beyond the lightning it continuously spits. He spares a second’s look outside their duel to the battle outside to see an unfortunate soldier messily disemboweled by a terror demon’s lucky strike. His companions still fight on, blocked from aiding him by the constant pressure of lesser demons. Maxwell's lips thin as he throws himself back into the fight. He needs to end this. Now.

Now, normally he would try and remove the tail, both restricting the monster's reach and throwing it off balance, but as it doesn’t seem to be using it at the moment, aiming for the less armoured eyes and underbelly would likely be far more effective. Feet pounding, he rushes the beast, feinting to the right, appearing to try and repeat his previous strike before twisting on the spot, long blade thrusting towards an unblinking reptilian eye, tearing through it in a mess of dark ichor and aqueous humor. Maxwell, already anticipating a retaliatory attack, sprints and throws himself away from the monster, eyes screwed shut as he plunges his sword’s tip deep into the ground.

Upon the loss of one of its eyes, the demonic Tobi-Kadachi arcs its head towards the sky, roaring, volume eclipsed only by the thunderous crack of lightning as a titanic bolt looses from the whirling clouds above to slam directly into the beast’s open mouth. The overwhelming _crack-_ **_boom_ **of the strike deafens Maxwell, stunning him and leaving him entirely unaware of the possessed wyverns transformation, flowing fur crackling with electricity, pseudo-horns arcing, atmosphere filled with malign potential. Seeing Maxwell’s sprawled form, reeling from the sheer impact of the bolt, it cackles, maw filling with a ball of violent, hissing lightning.

“ **DIE AND BE CONSUMED,** **_MORTAL_ ** **!** ”

“No!” Cassandra screams, blade stuck through the dissipating corpse of a shade, fear gripping her at the sight of the oncoming attack, the knowledge that all they had fought for was soon to be for naught.

Varric, face fixed in concentration, lines up a shot with the beast's other eye, depressing the firing lever as the lightning ball reaches its final crescendo. It is too late, as the well-aimed bolt takes the beast's remaining eye a second after the undulating sphere leaves the monster’s maw to soar towards Maxwell's prone body. 

It impacts his sword first, the impromptu lightning rod providing a much more attractive route to the ground than its original trajectory. Unfortunately for Maxwell, the sheer amount of power flowing through the steel has sudden and explosive consequences, the wood and hide of the grip bursting into flame even as subtle impurities throughout the blade reveal themselves, fragments of red-hot steel scything outward. Maxwell grunts as several of these find their way into his legs, piercing the cotton under-armour and embedding themselves painfully into his skin. The immense charge crackles through the ground, giving Maxwell a hefty shock as it disperses.

He levers himself to his feet, wincing as numerous new wounds make themselves known. None are serious, mild lacerations and punctures at most. The Tobi-Kadachi is entirely blind now, one eye carved entirely from its head and the other with a well-crafted bolt still protruding from the orb. It is thrashing wildly, crackling arcs of lightning branching from its flesh as it attempts to find the hunter to blame for its injuries. Maxwell, unfortunately, is now entirely without weapon,and not so confident with his hand-to-claw fighting to square off with a monster of this caliber. He’s not the Admiral, capable of suplexing anything up to and including Elder Dragons. But if he could grab a fallen soldier's weapon… He steals a glance to the battle around him, wincing as he notices too many soldiers lying dead on the blasted stone floor. No shortage of swords to choose from, at least.

“ **HUNTER!** ” The monster howls, bolts of lightning cascading around its body as it writhes, claws and fang and sparking, whipping tail all searching for him. “ **WHERE ARE YOU! COWARD! WEAKLING! I WILL FEAST UPON YOUR** **_BONES_ ** **!** ”

Maxwell, blinking stark afterimages from his eyes, scrabbles away from the demon’s increasingly close swipes, waving wildly at Cassandra, who, being very busy defending herself from three terror demons, entirely misses the gesture. He is about to try and dart off and grab one before the monster realizes he’s gone, only to be preempted by a furry shape bolting across the battlefield, shard of a dragon’s tooth clutched in one hand, dragging a comparatively oversized sword with the other.

“MEOWSTER!” Pattern screams at the top of his little felyne voice, flinging a sword at the man's head. A wide grin breaks across his face despite it all, as he catches the sword, briefly examining it before deeming it adequate. The palico careens to a halt by the hunter’s feet, wide, toothy smile stretching across his face. Maxwell crouches to give Pattern a quick scratch behind one ear, a touch the felyne eagerly leans into while he can. 

“Pattern!” Maxwell says, eyes remaining fixed on the Tobi-Kadachi, who, upon hearing the Palico’s scream, is now focused on their general position. “I’d love to ask where you’ve been, but I _really_ need to kill this monster. Afterward?”

“Of course!” The palico readies his dragon tooth dagger, expression turning predatory. “The hunt comes purr-st!”

In the end, despite the demonic Tobi-Kadachi’s vast power and quicksilver speed, it takes roughly a minute to take the beast down, its crackling bites and wildly lashing whips of actinic lighting coming to naught when it cannot see where best to place them. The hunter and his palico dance between blind strikes to land mortal wounds, the hunter’s sword, while not as long as the one previous, is still sharp enough to cut through most of the thick, ropelike tendon of its back right leg, the palico picking openings to thrust his dagger through tough scales and dense muscle alike, thick, dark blood pouring from the numerous wounds. 

“ **AAAGGHHH!** ” The demon howls, enraged beyond rational thought, the primal instincts of the Tobi-Kadachi overtaking everything in its pursuit of blood.

The demon attempts larger-scale lightning bombardment, calling larger and larger bolts from the sky to no avail, the hunter and palico sprinting away from the beast when the telltale hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. The archers begin to fire at the wyvern as Cassandra and Solas, wielding steel and hoarfrost in concert, manage to turn the battle against the lesser demons, mopping the bedraggled remnants from the field. Bolts and arrows pepper the things tough hide, only one of five actually penetrating to the muscle underneath, but the constant fire an annoyance gradually bleeding the creature of stamina and blood alike.

Finally, after long minutes of battle, the Tobi-Kadachi makes a fatal misstep, the monster’s back-right leg giving way as the tendon finally snaps under the constant stress, the sudden loss of forward momentum proving fatal as the hunter plunges his sword deep into the beasts throat, resulting gush of brackish blood spelling the end of the twisted being. Whatever last words the demon wished to spout are choked by the tide of blood rushing through its throat as what was once a proud predator twitches once, twice and dies. 

Silence, so very different from the last minutes of pitched battle in the midst of an unnatural thunderstorm, sweeps the crater, before Maxwell, endorphins thundering through his system, cranes his head back and howls his victory to the heavens, immediately joined by Pattern, who’s exuberance more than makes up for his lack of lung volume. The surviving soldiers manage a ragged cheer prompting Cassandra who, flicking demonic ichor from her sword, calls out to Maxwell.

“Hunter! The rift! You must close the rift!”

Maxwell blinks, howl trailing off as he stares up at the rift, which does indeed look to be ready to be closed in truth, the glowing knot of fadelight no longer spewing out demons, now simply pulsing slightly, the bands of green light that connect it to the Breach overhead beating in time. He looks down to Pattern who stares back up at him. He smiles broadly, patting the palico on the head.

“I... am probably going to faint after this. Make sure I don’t break my nose in the process, yeah?

“Fur real?” Pattern asks, eyes wide. “I’ll be sure to cat-ch you then, Purr-tner!”

“Thanks, Patt.” Maxwells says as he raises his hand to the rift once more, allowing the throbbing heat lurking in his bones to unfurl, the barbed hook that is the mark catching as the Breach overhead shudders. Something within the rift pulls at him, something he cannot describe stretching and _stretching_ before finally, it snaps, sending a violently green pulse of energy up into the Breach. Upon impact, the Breach stabilizes, the meteors falling to Thedas ceasing as the once constant outwards growth stops, borders of the Breach slowly but surely shrinking.

Thedas, it appears, is saved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, replayed the intro a few times for this chapter and the Pride demon was very underwhelming. No mocking dialogue? Slowly walks around like there's a stick up his ass? Very slow wind-ups to his attacks? Well, he’s a lizard now.
> 
> I’ve also had a cat-pun dictionary open the entire time i've been writing this fic, it's starting to infect my purr-nacular.
> 
> Ghi'myelan - Hunter


	6. In Which The Hunter Realises He Is Slightly Out Of His Depth

For Maxwell, waking is always a sudden, violent thing. It’s been that way for as long as he’s been a hunter, the first moment after waking being a desperate, split-second appraisal of the situation, of whether or not a furious bone-armored Radobaan is about to slam its cudgel-like chin down directly onto his slumbering body. So it is no surprise when the hunter, upon hearing the faintest scrape of foot upon stone and a quiet humming, hurls himself from his bed, richly embroidered bedding flying as the man, reaching for a sword that is not there, looks around wildly from his position on the floor, searching for the monster his body breathlessly informs him is present.

“ _eep_.”

His body, it seems, is wrong, as there is nothing but a thin, wyverian girl, eyes wide with shock as frozen fingers scritch a certain Palico behind an ear.

“You- you’re... awake,” she whispers.”I- I’m sorr-”

“Good meow-rning, Meowster!” Pattern crows from his rightfully claimed chair, expression one of bliss.

“Ah.” Maxwell says, heart still pounding like a drum as he tries to forcibly calm himself. “I- Sorry about that, Miss.” He says, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Pattern! You rascal, already being pampered I see.”

“Why meowt?” The lynian bats his eyes in reply, rolling over to allow the girl access to his incredibly fluffy belly. “It’s what you humans are best fur ”

The wyverian— _are they wyverians if they only have the ears?_ —stammers something entirely unintelligible, stare moving from Maxwell’s towering form to Pattern, the man’s talking cat, exposing his belly for pets.

“Go for it,” Maxwell smiles, noticing her hesitation ”he lives for this sort of thing.”

Tentatively reaching towards the palico, she slowly strokes his belly, delicate hand sinking deep into his thick fur. As she tries to form words, a low rumbling purr begins to emulate from the felyne.

“So,” Maxwell preempts her stuttering question, thinking back to the last things he can remember. “Did it work? Is the Breach closed?”

“Aa-ah, sort- of? It’s still there in the sky but its- “she stammers out, clearly terrified at giving the wrong impression, before taking a deep breath and continuing. “They... say it's not expanding anymore, that you saved us all.”

“Well, that's an interesting way to put it, but yeah, I suppose I did close it.” The man sits heavily on his bed, eyes running over the interior of a cozy cabin, something that looks surprisingly quite a lot like his personal room within Astera. ”How long have I been asleep?”

“Oh! Three days, my lord!” She says, visibly pleased to give information she actually knows. “You were, as far as the healers could tell, uninjured—thank Andraste—but they did not want to wake you. And- ah” She blinks, and, gathering her remaining courage, speaks in a rush of words, “Lady Cassandra told me to tell you that she is waiting for you with the Lord Chancellor in the Chantry once you awaken!“

“The Chantry?” Maxwell asks, finger idly probing his bandaged thighs and calves, where he distinctly remembered being pierced by shrapnel, now feeling nothing but a muted tenderness. “And where’s that?”

“At the top of the hill, my lord! At once, she said! I- should be going!”

With that final burst of knowledge, the girl quickly gives Pattern one last scratch behind the ears, bows to the waist and bolts out the door, closing it behind her as carefully and quickly as she can.

“Huh.” Maxwell says to no-one in particular. “Pretty high strung. Must be new.”

“Nya,” Pattern says, casually cleaning a paw. “She’s just nat-purr-lly skittish as a kitten. Likes giving snacks to poor, hungry felynes, though ” 

Maxwell chuckles, reaching a cajoling hand out towards Pattern. “Of course she does. It’s always good to see you, Pattern. How are things ‘round here?

“Purr-etty weird Purr-tner.” The palico says sagely, hopping up onto the bed to have his ears expertly scratched by the hunter. “Purr-etty weird. Don’t think we’re in the Mew World anymore.”

“Yep, kinda figured that. You meet Cassandra?” He asks idly, enjoying the heat of the fire, well trained fingers scritching Pattern’s ears to the felyne’s evident pleasure. 

“Yeah! Pattern says cheerfully. “She helped carry mew out of that crater! A real stand-up gal! She even gave back your arm-purr!

“Oh!”

Looking around the well appointed room, he quickly notices his armor sitting upon a stand in the corner of the room, polished to a shine. Maxwell grins, leaping up from the bed to inspect it, Pattern snagging his shirt to pull himself up onto the man's shoulder with a felyne yowl of discontent. The hunter runs his hands over the beautiful craftsmanship that is so familiar to his touch.

The helm, carved from a singular chunk of prehistoric bone excavated from the Rotten Vale, casts a fearsome visage, blackened bone shaped into a primitive skull, jutting horns painted with crude lines of blood and woad and a thick, flowing mane of Pukei-Pukei feathers. His gauntlets are forged from the carcass of a Kushala Daora, the first Elder Dragon he had ever killed, its metallic scales mutedly glimmering in the light of the fireplace.The rest is a blend of metal and bone, talismans and charms hanging from the scaled ridges of his armor. They are his trophies, chips of a Glavenus’s bladed tail, tailfang from a Deviljho, bundle of bristles from a Rajang’s back, and many more. It, like every other Hunter’s armor, is an entirely unique work of art forged specifically for him. 

The darkened cage hung around the hips though… 

Scoutflies flare into brilliant life as Maxwell gently taps their enclosure, the tiny insects flowing forth in a great cloud, alighting gently upon his outstretched hands and inquisitively surrounding the green, glowing mark upon his hand. Maxwell chuckles, gently shaking his hand as he taps the cage again, the swarm obediently returning. It is good they were not harmed, as close as their natural bioluminescence seems to the light still sluggishly bleeding from his hand, he had half expected them to be dead. He shouldn't be surprised, New World insects are some tough customers.

Turning to the armor, he tilts his head in contemplation. He wants to put it on, to step forth from this house clad in his own shining armour, but there is no fight on the horizon, only a promised discussion with Cassandra, something a hundred pounds of heavy armor will only inhibit. He isn’t one to wear his armor every second of the day unlike some other Hunters, and does own some very comfortable Paolumu leather clothes for everyday use.

But… on the _other_ hand, it is cold as the Reach outside, something his well padded and very thick armor would surely stop. And if he is going to endear himself to the populace, what better way than to appear as well-dressed as possible, clad in the trophies of his many victories. 

“Patt, d’you think I should wear my armor out there?” Maxwell asks, roughened fingers carding through the thick, feathered mane of his helm. 

“Yeah!” Pattern cries, curled bonelessly around the man's neck. “Gotta strut your stuff! Cat-nt see anything wrong with that! I’ll help you meow-t!.”

Maxwell grins, pleased, and strips the beige leathers off his skin, expertly donning the heavy weight in a matter of minutes with the exuberant help of Pattern, draping chainmail over broad shoulders and strapping plates over top. He dons the helm last, horned skull fitting tight over his own. He smiles, once more clad in familiar weight, palico sitting eagerly on his shoulder.

Now, to the Chantry, where he can finally get some answers to some burning questions.

He opens the door to a gathering of people right outside the house, murmuring masses going abruptly silent as they notice the heavily armoured man standing on the threshold. Their collective gaze is unnerving, not because of the gratitude for the deed itself, he’s used to that much from researchers and fellow hunters alike, but because it is worshipful, as if he is something holy. Stepping forth into the winter chill, the crowd parts before him, a hard-packed path leading uphill. Kneeling soldiers, men and women alike in thick red robes praying and a hundred-strong mass of men, women and children alike watching him with eager, worshipful eyes, his acute hearing picking up the whispers boiling up around him. 

They call him the Herald of Andraste, a drake-demon-dragon slayer, half-sealer of the Breach, and other, less complimentary things. They are not loud, those people, poisonous murmurs floating from their lips even as their accusing eyes drink him in. They look scornfully at his armor, at the mark still bleeding through his gauntlet and at Pattern perched up on his thick pauldron waving at everyone around him with the characteristic energy of an excited felyne.

Above it all, slowly gyrating just behind the snowy mountains sits the Breach, though it appears much calmer, lacking the constant meteor bombardment and hunger for untainted sky. The mark upon hand is silent save for a mild, unnatural heat, something he is very grateful for. He is no stranger to pain, but that does not mean he seeks it.

After a long minute of walking through the parted mass of people, cutting around tents, cabins and rough statues of growling dogs, Maxwell reaches what must be the Chantry, a hulking stone building made distinct by dint of looming over the tents surrounding it. 

Nodding awkwardly at the avidly watching priests, he walks into the building, shutting the door behind him. In the quiet of the empty building, Maxwell lets out a sigh. Herald of Andraste? Herald implies something to be heralded, so what exactly is Andraste? And the sheer fervor those people held… Maxwell has never been an especially religious man, seeing the Sapphire Star as nothing more than some allegory for ceaseless exploration rather than a draconic god of myth. Of course, he had been proven wrong in that...

He shakes his head. No. Not the time.

His echoing steps fill the well-lit building as he peers into empty rooms, walking towards the closed door at the end of the hall. Raised voices penetrate the solid wooden door, as he stands before it, one of them clearly the strident tones of Cassandra, the other a man’s voice, one that seems almost familiar, tinged as it is with dismissive anger.

“-e is a _barbarian,_ Seeker! How can you-”

Ah yeah, that guy.

Maxwell shoulders open the door, head tilting automatically to the side to avoid scraping his horns upon the doorframe. The conversation grinds to a stop upon his entrance, the inhabitants of the room turning to face the intruder, hands dropping to the hilts of their respective weapons before realizing who it is.

“Hunter!” Cassandra says, genuinely surprised to see him. “It seems you have finally awakened.”

“Seeker!” Maxwell responds, a broad grin spreading across his face as Pattern waves wildly to the woman. “I heard that you were the one to return my armor! Thank you!”

“Yes, well, we had agreed on returning your possessions only when the Breach was sealed, but given your efforts....” She pauses, the three-day coma speaking for itself. “It seemed only fair.” 

The Chancellor scoffs loudly, angry eyes glaring first at the palico, then at the great, horned helm, then at the glowing scoutfly container on his hip. “Seeker! We do not yet know what this _savage_ has done! The Breach is still in the sky, not closed, only receded! What if this was his plan all along? To appear the savior, only to betray us in our darkest hour!”

“Chancellor! Our darkest hour came and went some three days ago! “Leliana speaks passionately, rounding on the man.” If this Hunter were truly such a villain, there were ample opportunities during the fight where he could have betrayed us, joined forces with the demon and attacked our own forces, or even run away, leaving the Breach to spread unfettered! Instead, he stood his ground and slays the demon in single combat!

“A trick then!” The Chancellor roars, slamming both hands on the solid wood table. “Do you not see his familiar? An possessed animal suborned to his will, the glint of the Fade peeking through his hand and belt alike! ” 

The women look down at his belt, then up at Pattern, who promptly waves, then to Maxwell, question lurking in their eyes despite their defense of his actions. 

“The Fade- oh the scoutflies? They’re not from the Fade, they’re just bioluminescent. Here, just let me- there.” Maxwell taps their enclosure, a wave of the glowing insects flowing forth to alight on whatever objects their primitive brains find interesting, such as an unattended, half eaten lamb-chop, Pattern’s twitching nose and an intricately carved bottle of Orlesian wine. The guards by the door stiffen, eyes flicking to Cassandra who reacts with only a mild twitch as a scoutfly lands on her gauntlet, proceeding to thoroughly investigate a miniscule dent in the metal. She slowly brings it to her face, eyebrows arching as she peers down at it.

Predictably, the Chancellor does not react with grace when a particularly brave scoutfly lands on his robe, hand flicking out to swat the inquisitive insect, flinching as its compatriots react as is typical of their breed, flashing a vibrant red and quickly retreating back to the hunter’s enclosure.

“That was rude.” Maxwell huffs. “They’re just trackers, bred for finding monster tracks and trails and whatnot. They’re very good at their jobs and very shy. ” He sighs, looking down at the cage hung from his hips. “They'll be in there for the next few hours, I'd bet.”

“I-” Rodrick tries, before returning to his trusty sneer. “They are unnatural!”

“They are interesting.” Leliana rebuts, peering at the enclosure with interested eyes. “Something similar to lightning bugs then?”

Maxwell laughs. “Very distant cousins, I'd wager. Lightning bugs are _much_ more dangerous and like to partner with Zinogres, not hunters. In fact-” He says, peeling a part of his underarmour back to reveal a quartet of tiny Lichtenberg scars burned into his forearm“-here’s where a few of them got me a few months back.”

“I-” Leliana says faintly, thoughts whirring behind a politely interested facade. “-believe we are thinking of rather different bugs.”

“Really! What-”

Cassandra quickly interrupts him from starting another tangent. “Hunter, I can appreciate your curiosity, truth be told I am quite curious about your homeland as well, but there are pressing topics to be discussed.Firstly-” She pulls a heavy book from behind her back, the cover embossed with the sigil of the watchful eye, the same that sits upon Cassandra’s armor and Leliana’s brooch , slamming it forcefully upon the table.

“You know what this is, Chancellor.” She states coldly. The man’s eyes widen as he takes in the book, a denial coming to his lips that Cassandra interrupts before it can manifest. “A writ from the Divine, granting _us_ authority to act.” 

She takes a breath, veins of deep-seated righteousness bleeding into her speech.“As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn. We shall close the Breach, find those responsible and we will restore order, with or without your approval.”

“You-” Rodrick attempts to say but slams his mouth shut, thinking hard. IT is clear to Maxwell, at the very least, that nothing this man can say will sway her, and cannot hope to shift her beliefs one iota. Short hours of knowing the woman has told him much of Cassandra’s character, and this much is clear. With no other recourse, the Chancellor storms from the room, sneering at Maxwell as he passes.

The guards go with him, closing the door with a muted thud. Maxwell looks at Cassandra, then to Leliana. They look back to him, before Leliana starts to speak, her words carrying the heavy weight of solemn purpose. 

“This is Divine Justinia’s final directive: Rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who would stand against chaos and stop them at all costs. We are not ready. We have no leaders, no numbers and now, no Chantry support.”

Cassandra continues, eyes boring into the man in front of her. “But we have no choice. We must act now, with you by our side.”

“I-,” He says. “Hold on, I’m confused on- a hell of a lot of things actually, but for one, the Inquisition?”

“The Inquisition is, historically, an organization that came to power to protect the people from the ravages of magic.” Leliana steps forward, placing her hands on the stout table before her. “This time, it is not so different, a civil war, a magical catastrophe threatening to erupt across Thedas. Someone must act, and it is clear that no one else will.”

“Alright, that- probably makes sense, but why with me at your side?”

“Because you are the Herald of Andraste.” She says simply. ”Pulled forth from the Fade by Andraste herself, sent to our aid in our time of direst need. That mark, the Anchor upon your hand, it is her gift and, as far as anyone knows, the only power capable of closing the Breach.

There's a brief moment of silence as Maxwell looks to both women before tentatively opening his mouth to ask a very important question. “And you… are aware I don’t know who Andraste is?”

Cassandra and Leliana trade weighty looks, unseen words flashing between them with the ease of long friendship. Cassandra looks back to Maxwell, certainty bleeding through brown eyes.

“Yes, we are. But, the soldiers that captured you have spread stories of your escape from the Fade, speaking of a woman composed of golden flame standing behind you as the rift opened.” Cassandra leans over the table, staring deep into Maxwell’s eyes. “Even though you do not know Her, you appeared at exactly the right time, escorted by Her through the Fade itself.”

Maxwell scratches the back of his neck, casting his mind back to that vigorously unpleasant few minutes. “ I do remember that, the woman. But she just… stood there and burned, then she touched me and _I_ burned. Mm.” He rubs his marked hand in remembrance. “Pattern,” He says, nudging the felyne lounging between the horns atop his head.”You notice anything?”

Pattern places a fuzzy paw to his chin, clearly thinking very hard before raising that very same fuzzy paw and waving it around excitedly, “I remem-fur my Purr-tner passed out a-fur-ter she touched him! His paw had started sparking all green and I tried to slap him awake but then a whole bunch of people ran over and poked swords at my face so I scampered away so I could fur-low him from a distance!”

Cassandra stares at the talking felyne, then to Maxwell, then back to Pattern’s entirely innocent face. To the side, Leliana looks like several things have just slid into place at once

“Hm. So that's why eyewitness accounts had the cat attacking him.” She murmurs under her breath.

Pattern’s ears prick up, yowling as he whips up from his extremely comfortable sprawl atop Maxwell’s helm to level an aristocratically offended glare down at the woman. “Hey! I’m a PALICO! Not a _cat_! How would you like it if I called mew a meow-nkey?” He huffs, slowly relaxing as Maxwell’s fingers find their way to his ears again.

“I’m- sorry?” Leliana half-asks, turning slightly to look at Maxwell in askance.

“Cats are,” Maxwell says, making an expansive gesture with his free hand. “less-evolved forms of lynians, the species he’s a part of. Like he said, it's like calling us a monkey and thus, very rude.”

Pattern meows in tacit agreement, bonelessly stretched upon the hunter’s head like a particularly fuzzy scarf.

“I- apologize for the offense.” Leliana says, off-balance. “Might I know your name?” 

The palico favors her with a lazily opened eye, looking first at her then flicking over to Cassandra, who seems to currently be in the midst of a revelation. He sniffs, a theatrical noise of felyne disdain. “Mew can call me Pattern, human.”

“Very well, Pattern. I apologize for my disrespect, unintended as it was. In return, my name is Leliana.”

“Nya! I accept!” Pattern says, affect of offense vanishing like dew in the sun. “Nice to meet mew, Leliana!” 

Leliana nods gracefully, apparently already come to terms with the felynes existence, which in itself reveals some slightly concerning things. Maxwell opens his mouth to address these things before he is cut off by Cassandra.

“So, the stories are true then,” She says breathlessly. “Andraste truly did give you the Mark.”

“I mean, maybe? But I still don’t know who that is!” Maxwell exclaims, “Could you just, I don’t know, give me an overview before you declare me their herald?”

“I- yes, forgive me, I had forgotten.” Casssandra takes a breath, before starting to explain. ”In essence, Andraste is the bride of the Maker, the creator of our world and the Fade. She managed to convince him that we, as his creations, deserved another chance despite our many sins. She was betrayed by her mortal husband, Maferath, and befitting the deed, the Maker has since withdrawn from our world until he can be sure to trust us once more.” 

“I… see.” Maxwell says, only half-lying. “Like the Tale of Five then, creation and a prophet. The Sapphire Star, that kinda thing.”

“What?” Cassandra asks, previous rhythm of exposing her faith broken as she looks up at Maxwell quizzically. “I do not know that one. Is this something from your homeland?”

“Speaking of that particular line of questioning,” Leliana says, smoothly stepping into the mutually confusing conversation as she gestures down at the map-strewn table. “This is a map of world, in as much detail as we can muster. This-” she points at the largest landmass, unfamiliar writing traced around clearly delineated borders. “-is Thedas. We are here, in the Frostback Mountains.” She gestures to a vast mountain range bracketing the southern reaches of Thedas. “Does any of this look familiar?”

Maxwell steps forward, eyes tracing an unfamiliar landmass, stomach sinking in apprehension as he fails to notice anything similar to his own experiences. Pattern, roused from his previous lounging atop the hunter’s head, peers down as well, slitted eyes narrowing. 

“I’ve never seen any of this before.” Maxwell says, gauntleted hand tracing the edge of a large desert. “I- wait, let me just-” He pulls a leather-bound book from a specially made holster on the small of his back. “-grab this.”

He opens it to a well-worn page, one he proceeds to carefully fold out. It is a map, one of the New World, its roughly circular shape marked with an ocean of different notes made in spidery handwriting. They mark points of interest, promising outcroppings of materials, migration paths of monsters large and small and much, _much_ more.

“This,” he says, plunging a finger down at the map, “is the New World. I’ve been exploring it for the last six years along with the rest of the Fifth Fleet, hunting its monsters and discovering its secrets. And as far as I can tell, this isn’t on your map, and Thedas isn’t on mine.”

Both women peer down at the map and attempt to fit it into the map of their known world, comparing the outline of the coast to the islands at the far edge of a sizable ocean. None of them match, and Cassandra looks up to meet his eyes, visibly troubled.

“Either wherever you are from is outside our map’s knowledge or.. you are from another world.”

Maxwell nods, carefully folding his map up and turning to another page, one depicting a hasty sketch of a fearsome, horned beast. “I’m pretty sure you’re right in that. Now, to be fair, this has happened before, a random portal dumping people and monsters from another world into another, but it usually happens the other way around. This is the first time i’ve heard of the reverse actually happening.”

Cassandra stops, refocusing on the man’s hulking figure. “I’m sorry? This has happened before? This...movement between worlds?”

“Well, yeah, like I said, a few times. There was- uh. Mm, what was his name Pattern? Serious looking guy, white hair, cool scar?”

“Geralt the Witcher!” Pattern breaks in, clapping his furry paws together. “Of Rivia!”

“Yeah, him. Wait, _is_ there a Rivia here?” The pair of women silently shake their head’s, to which he shrugs and continues. “Anyway, there was him, that tree-monster he was hunting, that weird lynian with the pom-pom on its head, the _Behemoth,"_ He taps the sketch of the bull-like monster in front of him. _"_ that followed it, and.... uh- I feel like i’m forgetting something. Pattern? Anything to add?”

Pattern, ever adorable, puts a paw to his fuzzy chin and thinks hard for a second before raising a paw in the air in triumph. “Nya! The zombies! ”

“Mm, yeah.” Maxwell says, wincing. “Almost managed to forget about that. But yeah, the zombies turned out to be from another world too. A few researchers were looking into why so many portals kept opening up in the New World, but as far as I know nothing really came of it. Whatever happened, here I am.”

There’s a long silence in the room, torches flickering as each woman deliberate their own response to the extraordinary claim laid at their feet.

“This changes…” Cassandra begins, pausing for a brief moment before continuing. “This changes nothing. You hold the Mark, given by Andraste herself. It does not matter from where you came, only that you are here now and willing to help us.”

“I do agree, but,” Leliana says, face taking on a serious cast once more. “It would not do for this information to become public knowledge, not now when our position is so weak. It would be trivial for Chancellor Rodrick and other parties to twist your origins to their own means, painting you as a dangerous outsider or perhaps even as a demon. I would urge you, as Cassandra did days ago, to keep it under wraps, deflect when asked about your origins until you have a solid cover. I can begin making a suitable background, perhaps hailing from a distant tribe of Avvar…”

As Leliana descends into her own thoughts, scribbling notes into her own leather-bound notebook, Cassandra puts a finger upon the map, tapping a token in the center of an unknown country. “In the meantime, we will need to seal the rifts scattered about Thedas and drive back the demons that have already manifested. However, deciding who to approach in order to seal the Breach in truth takes precedence, I favor the mages for their raw magical power that we solely need, but the Templars may be able to serve the same role. Which ever group is chosen, we will need to act quickly before the Breach begins to expand once more.

Leliana, eyes still focused on whatever she is writing in her notes, speaks up. ”Additionally, there is a Chantry Cleric by the name of Mother Giselle aiding the victims of the Mage-Templar conflict in the Hinterlands. Her support would certainly lend the Inquisition some much needed Chantry backing.”

“...Alright.” Maxwell says slowly, mind running through the provision he has squirreled away inside his pack and what all these new words and implied concepts could mean, before Cassandra speaks again, her voice lower in tone, as she points to a scattering of smaller tokens on the map.

“And…. Herald. There are reports of monstrous beasts throughout the Hinterlands, many claiming that they are coming through the rifts. With your… admission, it seems clear that the beasts of your homeland have followed you through to Thedas.” 

“Ah.” Maxwell says, mind running through the consequences of this revelation, images of a roaring Deviljho carving it’s bloody way through an undefended town, a brutish Tigrex slamming its way through the front gates of the camp and him, the only hunter, far away and powerless to stop it. “That's not good.”

Pattern, having let himself down onto the man's plated shoulder, nods energetically. “Too right Purr-tner! Mew World Meowsters are no joke!”

“The possessed drake you fought, it is of an entirely unknown breed to the scholars we could find. If you could… share what knowledge you have-” Cassandra continues, clearly unsure of the boundaries the man has, already off balance from his being uncomfortable with being referred to by name.

“Oh! Of course, Seeker. I’ll lend them my notes, they've got everything they could possibly need to know.” Maxwell says, patting his opened notebook.

“Thank you, Herald, I’m sure they will greatly appreciate it.” Cassandra says, relieved.

With that, there is a knock at the door, to which Cassandra responds by striding around the table and pulling the door open. At the threshold are two people, one Maxwell has already met, the tired commander from outside the temple and an unknown, dusky-skinned woman clad in a golden dress. Both stop short at the sight of Maxwell, the towering warrior in completely unknown armour, before flicking their eyes down to his glowing hand and relaxing. The commander, who thankfully looks like he’s had some sleep in the days since the battle, straightens.

“Herald! I’m pleased to see you’re alright.” The man says, inclining his head. “ I’m Commander Cullen Rutherford, I lead the army of the Inquisition.” 

“And I,” the woman behind him says, curtsying.”am Josephine Montilyet, diplomat, emissary and very pleased to make your acquaintance, Herald.”

“It's- ah, good to meet you both.” Maxwell says, bobbing his horned head as Patten waves to them in greeting.

“They are to be your advisors, Herald, along with Leliana.” Cassandra interjects, ushering the two inside and shutting the door securely behind them. “And as such, they will need to know your… unique circumstances.”

“Ah. Well-” He starts to explain the situation, internally reeling at the thought that he now has advisors, the simple fact that he’s in another _world_ with all the implications it brings finally percolating through his mind. He’d left so much behind, friends, more than a few acquaintances and the day-to-day insanity of being a hunter, all more distant than ever, now being placed at the top of a religious hierarchy he has no clue about. And now he’s now got an actual apocalyptic situation to deal with, lacking the guidance of the mentors he could turn to in Astera. He wonders if this is how the Sapphire Star feels, the expectations of hundreds a tangible weight upon his shoulders, the expectation to lead the way, no matter how dangerous.

It's.... uncomfortable.

But, he can’t not do his best. These people, while very different from the men and women he is familiar with, seem solid in their own ways and, if the monsters from his world are breaking though, he has a responsibility to help hunt them down before they do irreparable damage to the ecosystem and to those people entirely unprepared to face them.

Finished with the explanations and reading the stunned looks on both of his advisors faces, he shrugs his broad shoulders, armor shifting in a barrage of clanking metal, as he claps gauntleted hands together and asks his final question.

“So. When do we leave?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chancellor Rodrick: LOOK AT THIS SAVAGE, POSSESSED CAT!  
> Pattern, purring: am just lettle cretcher
> 
> Anyway, sorry for the delay, but finals are rearing their heads on the horizon so I wouldn't expect another for a good while.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was brought to you by me sinking a few hundred hours into Monster Hunter then remembering Dragon Age existed.
> 
> I hope you like it!


End file.
